The Sepan Civil War
by Gerald Tarrant
Summary: A year and a half after the Battle of Yavin, the Empire is stirring again, and one man makes a choice that will both break him and set him free. Based on the Admiral Harkov story in the game TIE Fighter.
1. Prologue

In a time of unrest and change, governments fall, loyalties change, and strength is born out of trials by fire. A year and a half after the Battle of Yavin, the Rebellion is finally settling into their new home on Hoth. With the destruction of Alderaan and the battle of Yavin still fresh in their minds, the Rebels must carry on, led by their brave, yet troubled, leaders. Mon Mothma carries the weight of the entire Rebellion on her shoulders. Princess Leia Organa acts the part of the confident senator while hiding her own inner turmoil. General Crix Madine continues to be haunted by his past, and General Carlist Rieekan is a man possessed by the demons of his failure at Alderaan.

Meanwhile, the Empire is on the move. Admiral Drask Harkov, the youngest man to ever be promoted to command of an Imperial Fleet, is dispatched by Lord Darth Vader on a mission of great strategic importance. With his loyal fleet at his command, Harkov sets out for the Sepan System to stop an age-old civil war and to bring the warring peoples under Imperial control. Aboard Harkov's flagship, the Protector, a squadron of brave TIE Fighter pilots stands at the ready. Their squadron commander knows two things only are certain: that his squadron is the best aboard the ship, and that things may not always be as they seem.

And at the Imperial Academy on Carida, two Imperial cadets suddenly find their lives turned upside down by events more monumental than they could ever have dreamed...

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This fanfiction is based on the Star Wars computer game TIE Fighter and the Admiral Harkov substory within. After playing the game, I was fascinated with the innate possibilites that such a story held, and decided to write my own version out in full. The fanfic was started back in 1996, when I wrote chapters 1-14 and then lost interest in the story. However, going back and cleaning out my hard drive, I found it again and have decided to finish it.

As this was written almost five years ago, the writing quality isn't the greatest. I've gone in and tried to clean up some of the worst parts, but left most of it as it was. I hope you'll forgive me; I believe the story is worth telling anyway. Due to the fact that I didn't have internet access back in 1996 (and there weren't that many sites up then anyway) some of the timeline details might also be off. If you don't catch the time discrepancies regarding past canon events within the story, then pretend that there aren't any. If you do, then just accept my humble apologies, as the storyline has gotten far too complicated in 14 chapters for me to go back and correct them now.

Finishing this might take a while, as I'm just beginning to get back into Star Wars fandom after dropping out for a while due to various circumstances, but I do intend to. I hope you enjoy what's up so far.

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_This is a work of fan fiction and all canon characters, scenes, and concept are the property of LucasArts. Original characters and plot property of Gerald Tarrant._

Please do not repost this fanfiction without permission.  
lordofmerentha@yahoo.com 

* * *

Prologue

The icy wind boomed and groaned through the twists of the frozen canyon, stirring up a fresh snowfall from the drifts and mounds on the canyon floor, repeating an endless cycle millions of years old. Snow swirled, blown into tortured spirals by the howling storm. In its voice were the moanings of lost souls and the cries of the dead, going up to the clouded night sky like a fervent prayer for redemption.

At the mouth of the canyon, the fury of the gale was less, but the biting cold of the air was not. Surely no life could exist in an environment of such temperatures, but the single landing light on the cliff face blinking fitfully on and off defied that assumption. Behind it, huge landing bay doors stood half-open, revealing a yawning maw of metal and stone bathed in a dim yellow glow. Ships lined the walls in neat rows, scratched and dented masses of dully gleaming steel bone and muscle. Snow flurried into the cavern, borne by the wind, piling up in small hills by the opening.

A drone filled the air above the moaning wind; the whine of engines in the black sky. The sound grew louder and higher, emerging as a small craft dropped out of the sky, ghostly through the screen of snow. A_ Lambda_-class Imperial shuttle. It bore no markings, supported no escort. It flew on alone, oblivious to the raging winds around it.

Inside the shuttle it was warm, though the fogging transparisteel and blowing snow forced the copilot have to stand up and rub off the moisture repeatedly. Next to him, the pilot of the shuttle moved his hands nervously over the instrumentation, checking and rechecking settings. He looked over at the copilot, saw the man's hands move towards the transmitter.

"No communications," he warned, for what seemed the billionth time. "Either external or internal. And we fly manually. No sensors."

The copilot shrugged. "Well, it just seems to me that if the Rebels spot a lone Imperial shuttle out here that doesn't respond to transmission, they're not going to give us a second chance."

The other was right, the pilot knew. But he leaned back in his chair, tried to look relaxed. "It's orders. I just carry them out, Commander. I don't give them." He rested his chin on one hand, glancing back into the darkened recesses of the shuttle, then back out at the cliff. "But I_ am_ beginning to wonder if the one who gives the orders knows what he's doing. This is high treason. If any word of this gets out..."

"Too late, now." The copilot's hand moved on his control stick to guide the shuttle into the mouth of the landing bay. A tremor shook the shuttle as the repulsorlifts kicked in to lower it to the ground. There was a movement from behind the cockpit. The pilot said into the intercom, "Landing procedure commencing, sir."

"Good." There was a note of satisfaction in the deep voice that answered back from the intercom, along with something else. Hope, perhaps? Or maybe apprehension, buried deep inside and rising slowly to the surface?

The shuttle settled to the floor with a slight bump and the whine of hydraulics. The hiss of escaping gases was loud in the bay as the landing ramp lowered gingerly to the ground, sending a draft of frozen air wafting inside the shuttle. Its single passenger shivered despite the heavy cloak he wore. With steps echoing loudly around the huge room, he descended the metal ramp to meet the two other similarly shrouded figures that emerged from a doorway to the right. 

The man stepped onto the cold floor, stopped, waited for them to come closer. The three eyed each other for a split moment, trying, perhaps, to read in one anothers' souls the outcome of this strange meeting. One of the figures reached a hand to the hood, as if to draw it away from the darkened face within, then lowered the hand without touching the thick fabric. The man spoke then, breaking the frozen silence, his voice soft and deep, with a ring of deep suspicion but of hope as well:

"I have come with an offer for the Rebellion."

The two figures opposite absorbed this opening in silence, glancing slightly at each other. The man felt some unspoken words pass between them, darting like invisible glowing sparks in the chill air, and he swallowed. The rough cloth of his gloves chafed against his skin as he rubbed his tingling fingers together against the cold.

Then of the figures stepped slightly forward. The second stood watchful, with feet slightly apart on the rough hangar floor, but the first radiated an air of calm, though tinged with anticipation. "We have little reason to trust you, Admiral, but we are willing to hear your offer." A woman's voice, rich in timbre, with the tone of one used to command. 

"The fleet under my command is willing to join the Rebel Alliance..." he paused, trying to decipher their reactions, but there were none. At least not that he could see, though the glowing pattern of that significant glance hung before him. He waited a moment more, then continued, every syllable weighted with an undertone of steel. "... for a price."

The second speaker's head lifted slightly. "Very interesting, Admiral." The tone implied that she found this less interesting than sacrilegious. The man understood, as all commanders did, that to ask for monetary compensation in this furious pattern of life and death would be the same as stealing from a beggar. But there was more than money involved in his interests, and he hoped to make that known. 

The woman studied him, keen eyes bright under the darkened hood. The unspoken words in the air sizzled and glowed, between the three of them now, for the man knew that the other cloaked figure behind the woman had been gauging him as he spoke. He felt the heat of them upon his cold skin, under his cloak, but they darted away as he tried to catch them in his grasp. He waited.

Then the woman spoke again, this time with a brisk, businesslike air. "We have great need of officers of your caliber. Here is what I propose..."

She motioned the man closer. The trio moved slowly towards the door that led out of the bay. It hissed closed behind them. The yellow glow faded away into nothing, as did the shuttle's landing lights.

Outside, the blinking light flickered once and then became still as darkness reclaimed her own. The snow rose, fell, rose again, and the wind howled with the voice of anguish, the voice of doom, the voice of despair.

The voice of death.


	2. One: The Beginning

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This is a work of fan fiction and all canon characters, scenes, and concept are the property of LucasArts. Original characters and plot property of Gerald Tarrant.

Please do not repost this fanfiction without permission.  
lordofmerentha@yahoo.com 

* * *

****

One: The Beginning

The buzzer by the door chimed once, chimed again. There was a short pause, then a muffled rapping commenced, someone outside pounding on the metal door. The chimes resumed, in tandem with the pounding

In the inner chamber, the thumping could not be heard, but the buzzer chimes sounded clear and shrill from a small intercom next to the smooth metal countertop. Admiral Drask Harkov scowled at his image in the small mirror that jutted out from the wall above the counter. The cramped room was sparsely and simply furnished: a low wooden stool sitting in a corner on the metal floor by the counter, a showerhead built into the wall and a drain below it, a small refresher unit on the opposite side. A single light above the mirror illuminated the whole room with a harsh greenish glare. A glance out at the larger antechamber showed that it was furnished with the same austereness as the inner room.

Paying no attention to the buzzer, Harkov lifted his razor, scraped at another part of his shaving-cream covered chin, squinted into the mirror. The face in the mirror was not a young face, lined with years of worry and tension, with a receding hairline turning from dark brown to silver. It could have been a handsome face, once, but now the leanness of the features testified more to bleakness than to good looks. The admiral was stocky and muscled, only slightly taller than average, but there was an air of urgency and quickness about him, a sense that made crewmembers bend to their tasks with double effort whenever he passed, the same air that had made Harkov the youngest man to ever claim the title of admiral in the Imperial Navy.

Harkov scraped again with the razor, more violently this time. Shaving cream flecked off into the mirror and onto his lips, staining the gray counter with specks of white. He put down the razor, turned on the faucet, and wet his lips, making a face at the taste of recycled graywater. One would think that a ship the size of the Victory Star Destroyer _Protector_ could recycle water more efficiently. He picked up the razor again, then paused as the chimes resumed their wild ringing. Sighing, he put the razor down, wiped his hand on the already dirty towel around his waist, and started for the door, stopping to throw on an old, damp shirt over the towel. 

He reached the door and unlocked it, pressed the door open control. The door slid open, revealing the nervous face of a young Imperial lieutenant, neatly dressed in a dark olive uniform. Harkov recognized him: Lieutenant Solrun, a new aide recently assigned to him from the Imperial Star Destroyer _Invincible_. Someone had probably informed Grand Admiral Taklin that Admiral Harkov had too much work to do and needed help finishing it all. Zaarin, most likely.

The aide saluted, opened his mouth. Harkov scowled at him. He didn't need an aide, and he had no patience with anyone who thought he did. Admiral Zaarin was going to hear from him, friendly intention or no. He glanced at the clock; it read six-fifty. "Lieutenant," he snapped, his mood souring as every second passed. "What important reason brings you pounding like a madman at my door at this hour in the morning?"

The aide shifted his feet, adjusted his cap, blue eyes darting nervously from Harkov to the room behind, and back. "Admiral Harkov...a message from Lord Vader."

Harkov opened his mouth to give Solrun another lecture, froze as the words sunk in. "What?" he said, stupidly. 

"Lord Vader is hailing you from Imperial Center. The call came in five minutes ago. He wants to speak with you personally."

Five minutes! Harkov felt gnawing fear, pushed it back. To keep the Dark Lord waiting five minutes was to keep him waiting a lifetime. He turned back to the aide, who shrank from his gaze and looked like he wished he could melt through the floor. "You kept Lord Vader waiting five minutes?"

"The lifts were full," Solrun muttered to the metal deck. "And you wouldn't answer the door."

"I bet they were." Harkov slapped the door control viciously, paying no attention to the man's second response. The door slammed down in the lieutenant's face, making Harkov feel a tiny bit better.

He leaned against the cool wall and took a deep breath, let it out slowly. _Vader!_ There was no way he could have found out. Was there?

Damp fear threatened to overwhelm him. He sagged against the wall, slid down to the floor and tilted his head back. It had been a little after Yavin-that was not such a long time ago. But if no one else knew except for him and...

Images crowded before his eyes, images of destruction, death, fire... Harkov straightened, scrambled to his feet. He closed his eyes, shutting out the images, then walked over to the wall intercom. "Harkov to bridge."

"Yes, Admiral?"

"Tell Lord Vader I am sorry to keep him waiting and I will be up in a moment."

"Yes, Admiral." Harkov detected a trace of nervousness in the voice before the intercom clicked off. Well, it was understandable.

He stood there in front of the silent intercom a moment longer, steeling himself. Nothing he could do would hid him from Vader's mysterious power, whatever it was. He would not run. He would face Vader, and if Vader indeed knew, so be it. Death would not be so unpleasant, after all.

"No more running," he whispered. Then he strode away into the inner chamber.

There was always something that bothered Bix Harris every time he came up to the bridge of a Star Destroyer. Maybe it was the fact that too many people were there trying to get the same thing done at the same time. Maybe it was the feeling of _closedness_, like he really wasn't in space at all, but just in some big building on a planet somewhere. Maybe it was the stormtroopers that sometimes appeared out of nowhere, standing there motionless with eyes hidden inside those skull-like helmets tracking your every move. Maybe it was just that he spent too much time in his TIE fighter and in the hangar bay and not enough time elsewhere. Whatever the reason, Bix had to pushed hard to be gotten onto the bridge of the _Protector_, or any other ship, for that matter.

Today, though, as he stood there looking out around the crew pit and waiting for General Daran, the TIE operations officer, to approve his report, he could feel something different in the air, an unusual energy in the movements of the crew, a forced quickness of step. The bridge felt twice as cold and unnatural, and Bix moved restlessly, eager to get back down to the bay where his fighter waited.

But even moving quickly, General Daran could only read and approve so many reports at a time, and there was a long line ahead. Bix peered down the line, catching a glimpse of Daran sitting at a computer terminal and popping the next data card into the scanner. The general was young-looking, seemingly not much older than Bix, though Bix had heard he was almost as old as the admiral, and was slight of build with thick blond hair. There was a thick, ridged, red scar covering almost half his right cheek and his right eye and giving it a perpetual squinting look. He was quiet, unobtrusive, rarely voicing any spoken opinion, but at the first sign of enemy craft his whole personality seemed to change. Daran was a deadly, efficient fighting machine, giving orders with a quiet confidence that no one would have expected that he possessed. 

Bix shook his head, glanced down at his flight officer's insignia, and wondered how long it would take him to become a general. Not likely it would happen soon. No one would want to be commanded by someone who looked like he was sixteen instead of twenty-three, no matter how good a pilot he was.

Twitching impatiently, he jostled the pilot in front of him. The man turned around threateningly. Bix swallowed. He was huge-easily twice Bix's size, and he looked like he could crush anyone smaller than him without even breathing hard. The pilot glared down at him with angry green eyes. "Watch where you're going, _Officer_," he sneered.

Bix brought his eyes up to the man's insignia and took a step back, bumping into someone else behind him. "Sorry, commander," he mumbled, turning around to offer his apologies to whoever else he had assaulted. He drew a deep breath; it was only another young flight officer who shyly avoided Bix's gaze. 

Hard fingers grabbed his shoulder, wrinkling his uniform and spinning him back around. "Sorry?" mimicked the other. "Look here, you rat-" He broke off in midsentence, looking at something across the room, saluted hurriedly. Bix, aware that most conversation had stopped, looked around, then spotted Admiral Harkov making his way across the bridge to the holochamber on the far side. 

Bix half-smiled, threw up his hand in a military salute. Harkov had something about him that made Bix feel prouder and more alert when he was near, and he, as well as most others under Harkov's command, worshipped the ground the admiral walked on, or at least the nearest thing to it. Harkov made an effort to be personal with everyone, he was willing to stop and listen to compliments or complaints, and he didn't pull rank on others to better himself, as Bix had heard that other admirals did. He was rarely angry, and he _understood_-understood it when people made mistakes because they were tired or worried. That was the thing Bix liked about Harkov. He was an admiral not because of political or monetary ties to the Empire, but because he deserved to be admiral, and because he had worked hard to earn the respect of those who served under him.

Bix looked twice at the admiral, who was halfway to the holochamber, and frowned. The comfortable look of command that Harkov usually wore was gone; instead he looked tired, more like an old, old man with the weight of the galaxy on his shoulders. His eyelids were heavy and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth were more pronounced, and there was something else, too, the look of a man going to his doom. Oddly, though, he seemed to be smiling, in a wolfish sort of way that made danger tingles run up and down Bix's spine. Or maybe he was just imagining it.

Harkov nodded to everyone on the bridge and disappeared behind the holochamber door. The buzz of conversation resumed. Bix turned, surprised to find that he was next in line and that the bullying commander was gone. He handed his battle report data card to the General and waited.

The holochamber was dark, lit only by a single lamp above the heavy, closed door. No sound penetrated the room; no footsteps, no voices, not even the engine roars of the millions of craft that came and went from Imperial Center every hour. Nothing, save the vaguely sinister mechanical wheeze of breathing. In, out, in, out, measured, steady, waiting.

The Dark Lord of the Sith stood motionless, every fold of the black cloak in place, boots gleaming dully in the dim light. He stood alone before the holoproj, three of his bodyguards alert in the corridor outside. Not that it mattered; Darth Vader could dispatch a strong armed man without any physical exertion.

The black breath mark was the very picture of calm, but inside, Vader's thoughts swirled and his face twisted angrily. Pain shot through his jaw as the motion stretched scar tissue, but Vader paid no heed. It had now been fully ten standard minutes since the holo transmission from the _Protector_ by the trembling bridge comm officer. Vader was not a patient man, and if Harkov did not reply soon, a lesson would have to be taught. 

Vader felt the dark side of the Force nearer, opened himself, felt it fill him. So much power! When the dark side was with him, he felt more aware, more whole. _I will show you such power as you cannot imagine_, he heard the Emperor whisper from another time, another place. Yes, he could never have imagined such power, and he was only beginning to discover the depths of it. The Emperor was strong indeed, but someday, Vader would gain full mastery of the Dark Side and surpass him. Someday...

For a moment, Vader considered sending another transmission, then decided against it. Harkov would be nervous enough; Vader did not usually contact his commanders personally, and he did not want to frighten the man out of his wits. At least-not yet. Fear was an effective tool, but it had to be controlled, doled out in exactly the right amounts. It was like constructing a lightsaber gem. Too little heat and the gem would fail, too much and it would crack. But add just the right amount, and it could be transformed into a deadly weapon, made to serve the wielder's purposes. And in this case, the wielder was himself. Fear and the dark side of the Force made a deadly combination.

A motion caught his attention-the transmission light blinking on the holoproj panel. Vader turned, reached out with the Force, pressed a control. The air shimmered, coalesced into the figure of a lean, middle-aged Imperial admiral, fully shorter than Vader by a head. Vader noted the man's expression with satisfaction: the right mixture of submission, confidence, fear...and something else. Behind his mask, Vader frowned. What was it? Well, there would be time later to think about it. The man bowed, a short stiff military bow. "My lord Vader."

"Admiral Harkov," Vader replied in return, letting some of his anger seep out in his voice. Harkov heard it; his features on the holo image tightened visibly. Vader continued, each word clipped with impatience. "You are late in answering my transmission." He felt the dark side growing within him, swelled by his anger.

Harkov tilted his head up to look the Dark Lord in the face, then lowered it. It was not as if the breath mask offered any answers. Vader waited, anger growing. "I...had reasons, Lord Vader," the admiral finally replied, uttering the words as if they might be his last. "It was my mistake."

Vader almost sighed, forced himself to regulate his breathing. Harkov was a good officer and there was no reason to make a demonstration out of him for a small error. "I trust you will be more vigilant in the future, Admiral," he said, warningly, but he felt his anger ebbing, pushed down to a simmering heat deep inside, and felt the dark side ebb with it. Truly he needed to master the dark side so that he could call on it whenever he needed, not just when his anger was great. Master it completely. As the Emperor did.

On the holo image, Harkov gave a short nod, his features relaxing, the whatever-it-was gone now. Vader made himself a mental note to replay the tape of this transmission again later. It did not _feel_ right, somehow. Later. "Very well, Admiral," he said. "You are aware that I do not usually contact officers personally."

"Yes, sir." A wary look came into Harkov's dark eyes.

Vader paused, letting the man worry a bit. Then he said: "I am transferring you to a new sector."

As the words sank in, Harkov looked confused, amazed, relieved, then turned his full attention on Vader. Good. The man was trustworthy at least, ready to do as he commanded. Pleased, Vader said, "Do you know of the Sepan system, Admiral?"

Harkov frowned, chewed his lip, clasped his hands behind his back. "I believe so...wasn't it one of the Old Republic's relatively minor shipping ports bordering the Rim? About ten days' travel from Coruscant by hyperspace?"

Vader nodded. Good knowledge of galactic topography was a mark of a strong commander, and the man before him certainly fit that requirement. Of course, Vader reminded himself, Harkov had been named the youngest admiral in the Fleet for good reason. "It is still a strong shipping center..." he allowed his words to trail off, "but of an entirely different nature."

The man was quick as well as intelligent; he caught on to Vader's implications at once. "If it is a basecamp for smugglers on the Rim, then why is the Empire bothering with it?"

Direct questions, direct answers. Harkov minced no words. Vader stored that in his mind, ready to retrieve later as evidence for the admiral...or against him. "Think of _why_ smugglers collect there, Admiral," he said. "The Sepan system, especially its main planets, Ripoblus and Dimok, are a galactic crossroads, a centerpoint that provides easy access to more than five other different systems that are all within a day's journey from Sepan by hyperspace. If the Empire controlled Sepan, it would all but control those other systems as well."

"Ah." Harkov furrowed his brow, then continued with a bit of hesitation. "Then...may I ask why you are sending me there to root out smugglers? Others would do just as well, perhaps better." There was an undercurrent of fear in his voice, but also a boldness that overshadowed the fear. Had this been any other officer, Vader would have at least...reprimanded him for his lack of courtesy, but this was Drask Harkov, one of the best in the Fleet, and a man known for speaking his mind. 

Vader was beginning to become irked at Harkov, for he was not accustomed to having his orders question. But he forced himself to swallow his anger. For all Harkov's barbed statements, he was a competent officer that understood Vader's implications. Harkov was natural, straightforward, not trembling with fear like some officers, not obedient to the point of servility like some others. 

"I sent Admiral Mikov there two weeks ago." Harkov's head came up. "I gave him explicit instruction. However, Mikov was...creative." Vader felt renewed anger at the memory, pushed it away. "His actions stirred up renewed rivalry between two of the system's native human groups: the Dimok and the Ripoblus."

"Renewed?" Harkov frowned.

"The Dimok and the Ripoblus have been involved in a civil war for centuries. A cease fire was called ten years ago, albeit unwillingly, temporarily ending the war. Admiral Mikov, out of sheer stupidity, launched a raid on a Ripoblus storage camp and destroyed it. The Ripoblus blamed it on the Dimok..." Vader let his voice trail off.

Nodding, Harkov shifted his stance slightly. "I would take it that after ten years of forced peace, the fighting is rather heavy."

Vader felt grudging admiration through his annoyance; most officers would have needed that fact explained to them. "Yes. That is why I am sending you there instead. You were recommended as one of the best in the fleet, next to Thrawn, and Thrawn cannot be spared from his position on the other side of the Rim. Admiral Zaarin will arrive to take over your present position at Endor. He will also deliver to you the Interdictor cruiser _Harpax_ to be used at your discretion in this campaign. You have your fleet with you?"

"I only have the _Protector_, and two frigates," Harkov said. "The Corvettes and the _Commander_ are in dry dock being overhauled, but they should be ready by now."

"Then I shall have Zaarin bring them with him as well. Do not make the same mistakes Mikov did, Admiral. The Sepan war must be stopped at all costs and the smugglers driven out as well."

"What happened to Admiral Mikov?" Harkov asked, squarely meeting Vader's gaze.

"Mikov is none of your concern, Admiral," Vader snapped. He could be pushed only so far, and this man had pushed farther than he liked. "You are to concentrate on your assignment. Use force, but I want both groups' planets intact when you are finished."

"Yes, sir." Vader noticed Harkov's shoulders slump a centimeter, then straighten again. "My fleet will be ready whenever Zaarin arrives."

"Good." Vader stepped closer to the image above the holoproj. For a moment, he could see a renewal of the old fear in the admiral's face. "Do not fail me, Admiral Harkov," he said warningly.

Harkov saluted and vanished as Vader reached out with the Force, tapped the wall control to deactivate the holocom. The silence was suddenly very loud in the chamber, broken only by the sharp, punctuated hisses from the breath mask. He felt the dark side waiting, a cold and ruthless force, waiting for him to embrace and control. All that power, for him alone to command. Reaching out, he gathered it to him, felt the coldness settle inside him and at the same time felt his awareness heighten, felt dead, but yet alive, felt the dark take him until only one spot remained, one tiny insignificant spot of light. Yes, he was indeed on the way to mastering the dark side. Soon he would erase even that speck of light and be whole.

Inside his mask, Vader smiled. Then he turned abruptly on his heel and left the dark chamber.


	3. Two: Preparations

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This is a work of fan fiction and all canon characters, scenes, and concept are the property of LucasArts. Original characters and plot property of Gerald Tarrant.

Please do not repost this fanfiction without permission.  
lordofmerentha@yahoo.com 

* * *

****

Two: Preparations

Tor Sunflier cut his throttle speed to one-third power, leaned back, and sighed. Behind him, the _Protector_ loomed like a bulky, winged monstrosity with the two Nebulon B-Frigates _Akaga _and _Thunder_ in the background. In front, through the transparisteel, the green moon of Endor winked like a green jewel on a backdrop of black velvet. Tor let himself fly towards it for a moment, then yanked his control stick hard over in a sharp turn, heading his TIE Fighter back towards the _Protector_.

For two weeks now Gamma flight group and the other TIE fighter squadron of the _Protector_, Delta flight group had been patrolling this part of space, watching in bored annoyance as heavy bulk-freighters, tugs, cargo lifts, and the like blasted out of hyperspace, unloaded cargo onto the three space platforms nearby, and went into hyperspace again. It reminded Tor of his boyhood on Tatooine, of moisture farming and growing crops in the baked sands outside Anchorhead base. The same precise motions, the same monotony. Nothing ever changed; and inspecting a bulk freighter was about as much fun as watching wind blowing sand into dunes. 

Coming out of the Caridian Imperial Academy, he had petitioned his superiors mercilessly for a position as TIE Fighter pilot. Not that you could actually chose, but he had been thinking that it might be one of the more exciting careers in the Imperial navy. Exciting! If this was exciting, then Tatooine was paradise. 

His sensor readouts showed a group of freighters that had just come out of hyperspace on the far side of the _Protector_. Tor sent the fighter on a gentle upwards climb over the Victory Star Destroyer, then shot over the bridge towards the freighters. The group slowed, hyperspace deceleration, and reached an astonishing speed of six MGLT.

Tor glanced at his aft sensors. Behind him were two more T/F, probably Gamma Four and Six: Harve Tisher and Eln Terra. Tor grinned, spoke into his transmitter. "What, you guys coming along for the fun and excitement of inspecting a bulk freighter?"

"Wouldn't miss it, Gamma Five," Harve's dry humor cut into his ear with a crackle of static. "Never know when one of those things is going to turn around and start attacking you." His voice took a panicky edge. "Quick! Power up your lasers! I sense hostility from that freighter over there!"

"Ah, cut it out, Harve." Eln accelerated, shot under both Harve and Tor, and dropped down in front, forming a straight file of fighters heading for the freighter group. Tor could never quite figure Eln out. Everyone knew to step carefully around Eln, for fear that he would scream at you for no reason, or suddenly want a fight with you for the slightest comment. Harve, on the other hand, was rarely anything but cynical and sarcastic, with a twisted sense of humor. How Harve and Eln managed to stay friends, no one knew. They had graduated from the Academy together and both served on the Imperial freighter _Destine_ before being assigned to the _Protector_ four years ago, three years before Tor. 

Tor's sensors showed one more T/F coming around the _Protector_ to join them. This one roared in at fifty MGLT faster than the three of them were going, cut a double loop around them, and settled under, matching speeds with the rest of them.

"Nice of you to join us, Two," greeted Eln with rough sarcasm.

"Well, you know me, have to be in on everything," came the reply, Cam Drelnin's voice. Cam was a hotshot if Tor ever knew one, taking every available chance to pull stunts in his TIE Fighter. He was friends with Harve and Eln. Tor ignored him. He couldn't stand him, and Drelnin knew it. "How's it going, Sunflier?"

Tor grunted into his pickup by way of reply.

"Friendly, aren't we?" said Harve cheerfully. 

"Shut up," said Tor.

The freighters were inching closer on his front viewport. Bulk freighters looked like a cross between a huge box and a flat package: two enormous long compartments connected in the middle by a wide flat strip that contained the engine. Tor targeted the center freighter of the group, peeled out of formation. "I'm going for the middle one."

"All right, Five." The others spread out behind him, each intent on his own target. Tor accelerated ten more MGLT, dropped down low. The targeting HUD flickered green as the distance closed-not like he was going to fire on the thing; it would be a waste of energy. The freighter loomed in front of him, its two monstrous compartments on either side like the walls of Beggar's Canyon. Tor rolled his Fighter into a loop, then straightened out and flew down the trench.

As he pulled up, he glanced at the CMD. It registered Imperial Freighter _Adara Three_, all systems operational, cargo: power supplies. Power supplies? Tor accelerated even more, drawing power from lasers to engine. He sped up away from the freighter in a hard power climb, leveling out at the top, shooting straight towards the _Protector_, then put the TIE into a belly roll that left Tor looking at the VSD, as well as the three platforms spread out behind it, right side up. 

"Anyone know what all this stuff is for?" Cam said, breaking the silence.

Harve grunted, banking to port and looping lazily around. "I don't think I want to know. I think we're all better off in the dark."

"Looks frightening, though," Eln said.

Tor cycled through his CMD, finding the _Protector_, the platforms, the freighters, and the other eight members of Gamma flight group, who were somewhere on the other side inspecting a cargo train. Rin Cloudrunner was on the Rim fighting aliens. Dirk Lightskimmer was chasing Rebels. And where was he? Out in the middle of nowhere, orbiting a virtually unknown moon, inspecting cargo. Why did these things always happen to him? He was the one who had always had to stay at home and help while his older brothers went out to hunt womp rats. He was the one who had to make daily trips to Tosche to purchase vaporator parts while all his friends were down at the swoop rings in Mos Eisley. And he had been the last one to leave for the Academy, almost two years after everyone else had applied and gone. Tor didn't really mind-after all, he was used to it-but it really made him think, sometimes. 

His sensors flashed, startling him. He glanced out and pulled up quickly. The _Protector_ loomed huge and dark in front of him. Another ten meters and he would have been nothing but space debris. Breathing a sigh of relief, Tor looked at his sensors again and frowned. They registered an unidentified craft approaching out of hyperspace at six MGLT. Tor frowned, checked again. It was not a freighter. He pushed controls, trying to get a reading on the unidentified ship. The CMD beeped. Tor gasped. The ship was an Star Destroyer, _Imperial_ class, coming in around Endor at five-zero-six. The ISD _Colossus_.

Abruptly, the transmitter in his helmet crackled. "_This is Control. All craft report back to _Protector_ immediately. Squadrons from _Colossus_ will take over your present mission. Repeat: all craft report back to _Protector_ immediately_."

The transmitter fell silent. Behind Tor, the other three T/F from his group swung around, changing vector from the freighters back towards the ship. Tor angled downwards, bringing his fighter towards the docking bay. A tingle of anticipation and excitement crept down to his toes. Whatever was happening, it was certainly going to be better than this. Well, with his experience, that wasn't likely. But then again, most anything was better than this.

Tor brought his fighter up and felt the hard shudder of the tractor beam take him and pull him into the belly of the great craft.

Night at the Imperial Naval Academy on Carida. The dim glow of the computer screen bathed the dormitory in a weird purple light. The furnishings were sparse: three beds, three wall-installed computers, an intercom, two chairs, a refresher room off to the right. The heavy metal door stood open, revealing the half-lit white duracrete walls of the long hallway beyond. Two beds in the room were occupied by shadowy shapes, one soundly asleep, the other tossing and turning in his sleep. The third bed was empty.

Keeping his eyes glued on the screen, Kelgyn Dyrrod reached down to his desk to grab a handful of dry crackers and shove them into his mouth. If only he had taken the time to read through this a week earlier instead of spending all that time with Daral and Kent at the swoop rings. For a moment, his eyes saw not the computer screen but the haggard, bearded face of his father, regarding him outside his family's cantina in Hyllyard City. Sweat trickled down from his father's forehead, gleaming in the bright Myrkr sunlight, as he spoke sternly. _"Study hard, son. You know we don't have the money to pay for this, but I'm sending you anyway because I know you can do it. But if your grades don't show it, you're coming right back here. I need an extra hand at the bar, anyway. And don't go to the swoop rings. Besides being illegal, they're all too dangerous."_

_I'm sorry, Dad_, Kelgyn whispered silently. Guilt flooded through him. His father's hard-earned money-and he was wasting it. He felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. All his life he had worked hard, harder than he really could, without anything to show for it. And now that he could show something, he wasn't working. _How many of your friends on Myrkr got to go to the Academy, Kelgyn? None. And you're here spending time playing instead of learning._

He groaned audibly, looking at the amount of data on the screen. Commander Antaris was not going to be happy with him, star pupil or no, if he failed that exam tomorrow.

"_The Battalions of Zhell were conquered by the Taungs_," read the next line_, "a people entitling themselves 'Dha Werda Verda,' or 'The Dark Shadow Warrior_._' The absence of agrarian advances during that era of Coruscant's history indicates that_..." Kelgyn felt his eyelids begin to come together, and the words on the screen began to blur. Strange alien men danced in front of his eyeballs. He tried to prop his lids open, but they were heavy, so heavy...

A hand grabbed his shoulder and shook him. Kelgyn's head jerked back and his eyes popped open. He twisted as best as he could into a combat stance, still half-lying in the chair, arms flailing the air and connecting with his would-be-attacker with a smack.

A muffled thump as whoever it was hit the floor, followed by loud cursing. Kelgyn started in surprise and sat up. "Daral?"

Grunting came from the floor. "How would it sound," came the retort, "if Daral Krellis, influential citizen of Coruscant and best pilot in the Imperial Academy, was killed in the line of duty in accidental hand-to-hand combat?"

"Come on, Daral." Kelgyn stood up, swaying from fatigue. He glanced over at the other occupied bed; Kent had not been wakened by the commotion. "I didn't hit you nearly that hard. Quit shouting; you're going to wake everyone within fifty kilometers of the academy. And you don't have to brag to me. I know all about your exploits already."

Daral rolled over, his face an unhealthy shade of green in the purple light. He had tousled light blond hair, unlike Kelgyn's neatly groomed dark hair and was as white as Kelgyn was dark, as tall as Kelgyn was short, as tough and muscular as Kelgyn was lean and wiry. He was the picture of wealthy pampering, one of those few that could afford to throw away credits wherever he went and still have enough to pay the yearly tuition at the Academy four times over.

And he was arrogant. Arrogant, cocky, egotistical to a fault. As fate would have it, he was Kelgyn's best friend.

Daral sat up. "You still studying?"

"What does it look like?" Kelgyn retorted, jabbing a finger back at the humming monitor.

"Take a break, Kel. You've been working so hard you're going to die of information overload. Have fun. This isn't boot camp, you know." He grinned devilishly. "That comes later."

Kelgyn sighed. "Maybe not, but it's the next thing to it. Look, Daral. Maybe it's different for you. You don't need to study. But I don't have connections. My father is not one of the most influential men in twenty systems. I don't have the wealthiest family on Coruscant. I worked to get in here, and if my grades don't show it, back I go to Myrkr and my father's cantina. I have two more years of this. Just because you're graduating this year-"

Daral held his hands up, grinning. "Calm down. Yeah, I see your point. Especially if you're from...Myrkr, or wherever. Little-known planets in little-known systems. I've never heard of it before."

"That's not surprising, considering it's in the middle of nowhere." Kelgyn turned the chair around to face Daral. "And Hyllyard City is a jumble of old buildings that should have been demolished a long time ago. Nothing like Coruscant, I'm sure."

The sarcasm was wasted on Daral, who looked at the ceiling thoughtfully. "No, nothing like it." He closed his eyes briefly, then began his Coruscant speech. Kelgyn half closed his ears, leaned back in his chair. Daral was the son of a wealthy nobleman of an old family on Coruscant. An old family with power, fame, and money going back generations. Kelgyn wondered how much of the cocky self-assurance Daral would have had if he were an only child, burdened with the responsibility of taking over his father's position someday. He looked over at Daral, who was still talking. But Daral wasn't. He had two brothers, both older. One of them was prepared to follow in the footsteps of his father. The other one-well, Daral never talked about him. Kelgyn didn't even know his name. He'd asked, once. Daral had closed up immediately, then glared at him the rest of the day like he'd insulted him personally. Kelgyn guessed it was better for some things to stay unknown.

But Kelgyn couldn't even imagine living half as well as Daral had lived-servants at your beck and call, expensive imported food, powerful contacts that could get you out of any trouble you were in.

Kelgyn felt a flash of jealousy as he remembered the gray tumble-down stone buildings of Myrkr, so different from the gleaming high-rises of Imperial Center. Most of the houses he had known from his youth did without even power or running water and made do with the beat up transports and run-down Skiprays that were the only spacecraft the locals could afford. He thought of the forest, the vornskrs and the strange yslamiri, and then the musty smell of home, his father's cantina, and the second floor where the family lived. The jealousy ebbed. No, it wasn't much, Kelgyn conceded to himself, but there wasn't any place he would rather grow up in.

"Hey," Daral prompted. "Are you listening?" 

"Yeah," said Kelgyn. It was an automatic reflex of his whenever he listened to Daral's boasting, to tune out and then respond like he had heard every word. He had heard about Daral's home a million times; he bet he had every word of Daral's speech memorized. He knew what Daral would say next. _"The restaurants are really good, too. My favorite's the Menarai because it has all sorts of strange stuff from all over the galaxy."_

"I was saying that the restaurants are really good, too. My favorite's the Menarai because it has all sorts of strange stuff from all over the galaxy." He looked at Kelgyn, who smiled slightly and shook his head. Daral raised his eyebrows. "You should come visit me sometime after you're graduated. I'll be in the Fleet, of course, but my brother'll be there and he's heard all about you from me."

"Sure," murmured Kelgyn. He respected Daral for that, at least. With all that money and prestige, the Krellises had no need for higher public education. He'd heard Daral talk about his father's private education by the great philosophers of the day, how he himself had had a private tutor all his life. But somehow Daral had tired of the good life, had wanted more. And so he was here now, suffering through the rigors of Academy training with cadets from families not even one-tenth as wealthy as his; people he would have never even condescended to talk to back on Coruscant. And, by the look of things, he was enjoying it. The training part, that is, not the studying. He was a horrible student and he knew it and didn't care. 

Daral laughed. "Then again, maybe you don't want to. But you ever run low on credits, just drop by and let me give you a hand."

"Thanks a lot." Kelgyn turned around, shut off the computer. The clock read a little past two. "What are you doing up, anyway?"

Daral shrugged. "You woke me up with all your groaning. Couldn't sleep well, anyway. Got a history exam tomorrow that I didn't study for and I was trying to figure out how to pass. And a physics exam. Guess it's too late to study."

"I'm studying," Kelgyn pointed out. "And fifth year history isn't that much harder than third year history, I imagine."

"Was studying," Daral said. "What's the point, anyway? Studying is for idiots. Money is for geniuses. You got money, you can buy your way into anything."

Kelgyn rolled his eyes. "Some of us aren't that lucky," he shot back as he stumbled over to bed. Behind him, Daral got up off the ground with a loud grunt and slapped the door release. The loud bang of the closing door echoed through the corridor outside.

"You really got a flair for dramatics, don't you, Daral?" Kelgyn grumbled as he flopped down on the hard mattress, not bothering to undress.

"Yeah, well, you know." Kelgyn could feel Daral's wide grin from across the dark room. "Runs in the family."

The final calculations were made, data entered into the navcomputers by the chief navigator, and like a huge, lumbering animal, the _Protector_ twisted on its axis to begin the hyperspace jump sequence. Beside it, the Interdictor _Harpax_, looking for all the world like a miniature Star Destroyer except for its four gravity well generators, took up position next to its new flagship.

The main viewscreen of the _Protector_, however, still showed the bridge of the ISD _Colossus_ and Admiral Tekar Zaarin, chief Imperial technology officer. Zaarin was an older man, with a severe, inhuman glare in his watery gray eyes, a thin, pinched face, and tight mouth. Thinning brown hair swept back from a high forehead. The spotless admiral's uniform just made Zaarin look even older and grimmer and more demonic.

Now, in a tirade about the monstrous construction project above Endor, Zaarin looked in his element, dark eyes glowering out at Harkov like it was all his fault. It was too much work, he complained, not enough workers, not enough time and equipment, too much technological data, too hard...

"Look, Tekar," said Harkov pointedly. "I'd like to talk to you later, but I've got an appointment in the Sepan system. Orders from Lord Vader himself." Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the captain of the _Protector_, Captain Zeldiri, hovering at the next console, impatiently glancing up now and then at Harkov and making small noises. Harkov signaled that he was almost done with his transmission and turned back to the screen.

_"Well..."_ Zaarin began doubtfully. Harkov sighed. Once you got the man talking you literally had to tape his mouth shut to make him stop.

"Really, Tekar, I need to leave. That's what you're here for-to see that all this-" he gestured around to the construction supplies outside on the platforms, "-gets taken care of. Workers and equipment included. Heard that we are due to receive a new shipment of Wookiee slaves, by the way. That should help you out."

Zaarin glared at him._ "Your sympathy is so touching."_

"Thank you." Harkov reached to terminate the connection, had a flash of thought. "Oh...about that new aide that I received last week..."

Zaarin half-smiled, making him look almost human. _"I infer that your work load is lightened."_

"You know I hate having my work load lightened," Harkov said. "I _like_ work."

_"As you wish."_ Zaarin shrugged_. "But you must be the only one in the Fleet who does."_ He stepped back. _"I will contact you if anything comes up."_

"Of course." Harkov's fingers moved to the transmission switch. Zaarin and the _Colossus's_ bridge vanished. Harkov moved to one of the side windows, lost in his own thoughts. Endor shone brightly, dwarfing the platforms and the _Colossus_ like a _Buw'washi_ next to a _D'hitr_. He stared out at the space platforms, sitting there so innocently and vulnerably, just out of the gravity field of the emerald moon. He _knew_-knew exactly what it was that they were building out there, what he and Zaarin were supervising. All the planning, all the preparation had been under his command. And he had done nothing.

Harkov shivered again, his mind drawing him back to another time and place, this one filled with black smoke, red fire, the stink of evaporating coolant gases mixed with sweat and sand and blood... _No!_

_"Drask!" His mother's voice, shouting hoarsely. "Drask, where are you?" He felt himself, nineteen years old again, lying motionless on the rocky ground, mud splattered and bleeding, then dragging himself towards the sounds. Behind him, something exploded. Shrapnel hit the ground around him and buried itself in the back of his leg. _

Harkov groaned, closed his eyes, but the images continued, clearer than ever before, playing themselves out in his mind. 

_He peered around the corner of the crumbling wall of the house, the stone warm and black from fire, shrinking back. Stormtroopers, holding his mother and sister, and his father sprawled on the ground, neck twisted at a grotesque angle. He squeezed his eyes shut._

_A blaster shot. Then another. Screaming...fading into silence. Behind him, black smoke billowed and stormtroopers shouted harshly. He half-stood, tried to take a step, tripped, fell, his leg throbbing, too exhausted to run anymore..._

"Admiral?" A voice cut in. The memory faded, and he was back on the bridge of the _Protector_. "Admiral?" The voice, closer this time. Harkov looked up with an effort. Commander Hapréll, gazing at him with a concerned look. "Are you all right? Shall I call your medic?"

Harkov waved him away with an effort. Through the viewing ports, stars faded into starlines. "It's all right, Commander. I-I am fine."

Hapréll went back across the bridge. Harkov stood, staring out into the nothingness. It had been almost thirty years-thirty years!-but the memory felt fresh, as if it had been yesterday. He had not seen it in such clarity in years-indeed, had not seen it in years, had denied it ever happening, even to himself and thrown himself into his work to keep himself from remembering. His home, his family, his world, gone, destroyed. All in a single day.

Harkov stiffened, pushing the remembrance from his mind, clearing it of everything and leaving an blank white space, forcing himself to concentrate on the here and now, on his mission. He would not remember, would not think on the past. Some things were best forgotten.

But the emptiness deep inside stayed with him as the _Protector _drove through the gray of hyperspace towards Sepan.


	4. Three: Into the Unknown

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This is a work of fan fiction and all canon characters, scenes, and concept are the property of LucasArts. Original characters and plot property of Gerald Tarrant.

Please do not repost this fanfiction without permission.  
lordofmerentha@yahoo.com 

* * *

****

Three: Into the Unknown

"No, I don't think it's a good idea," said Leia.

They were in the conference room, which was little more than another ice cave with a fancy name tacked onto it. Wires poked through the walls, reminders of an electrician's unfinished business, and boxes of tools, cables, and spare parts were stacked up to the rocky ice ceiling of the cave. This was a large cave, the second largest one in size next to the landing bay, and it looked bare and ancient and forbidding in the light of the two glow rods lying in the middle of the fold-out camp table. Besides the motley assortment of stools around the table, the huge cavern was devoid of any other furnishings. The far end of the room, where the light of the glow rods did not quite reach, was bathed in shadow, making anybody's imagination run wild, especially Leia's. Ghost and spook stories that she had heard as a child back on Alderaan came back to her.

The doorway was not much help; it was a jagged hole in the ice wall linking the cavern to the hall outside, which was just as dark as the room. The chill air seemed as dead and frozen as Hoth itself, and the absence of any form of power or heat made matters worse. Muffled thumps and bangs could be heard faintly from far away as workers struggled to install power in caverns adjoining the hangar, which was the only room so far with full power and working computers.

Shivering, Leia drew her thick cloak tighter around herself. The climate on Yavin had been far more hospitable. Granted, the hot steamy jungle had been a bit on the sweaty side, but the memory of it seemed much more inviting than living on this barren, white wasteland with tauntauns for company. As if to complete her train of thought, an icicle from the ceiling cracked, broke, splintered on the glow rods, little slivers of ice tinkling across the table. The noise brought her back to the matter at hand. "It's preposterous."

"And why would that be?" asked a gravely voice from the other side of the table. Admiral Ackbar was swathed in a heavy cloak, as all of them were, but his head was left bare, for unlike the humans, his eyes did not face front. He shifted on his low stool, webbed fingers clasping tightly together. "I agree the Empire is not to be trusted, but this man seems trustworthy. He is different from the others, I think. In fact, if we believe General Madine's report, he seemed willing to throw large amounts of money and ships into the Rebellion-things we desperately need." He looked across the table at General Crix Madine, sitting to Leia's right. Madine grunted and said nothing. Ackbar faced Leia again. "If he was working for the Empire, he would already have known our location for several weeks now, and this argument would have no value."

"Highly unlikely, but probable," insisted Leia. The room suddenly felt warm and her hands began to sweat. "The Emperor and Darth Vader are masters of deceit. We've witnessed it ourselves firsthand, time and time again."

"But it has been almost a month since this man met with us," General Jan Dodonna spoke from Ackbar's left. "Admiral Ackbar has a point. If the man was from the Empire, he has the location of our base, and there would be nothing to stop the Empire from obliterating the Rebellion now. We would have all been dead by the next day. But it has been a month, and they haven't attacked."

"They might be tricking us into thinking that by not attacking," countered Leia. "You know what the Empire can do. _I _know what the Empire can do. I was there, when...on the Death Star." She could still not quite bring herself to say _Alderaan_. "The Empire can't be trusted."

"I have no love for the Empire, either," said Ackbar quietly. Leia looked at him, her heart filling with sadness for his sake. Yes, he had witnessed the destructive power of the Empire as well, when it had devastated Mon Calamari, killing thousands of innocent civilians and destroying cities. But Mon Calamari was not Alderaan. The Mon Calamari had had a chance to rebuild. Alderaan was not given even that.

A great bitterness welled up in her. The Empire had a lot of things to answer for, and Alderaan was not the least of them. Even if the other wrongs were accounted for, even if the Empire could somehow atone for all its crimes, there was nothing that would ever atone for Alderaan. Nothing.

Ackbar's voice cut into her thoughts. "It is possible that the Empire is deceiving us with this. But even its blackest masterminds are not ones to waste time when planning an invasion. And many of our best pilots and officers once served with the Empire."

"Once, yes." Leia swallowed. The ice cold air felt heavy. She saw Alderaan again, the Death Star's superlaser lancing out, enfolding the planet in its shimmering embrace. "But they all broke away early in the war. This man was a part of all of it-the Death Star, Yavin. He stayed with the Empire when all those others you were speaking of joined the Rebellion. So why does he offer to link up with us now? It doesn't make sense."

"Leia is right, but so is Admiral Ackbar," Mon Mothma's voice, gentle but firm, came from the head of the table, turning all eyes upon her. Her hood was thrown back slightly, the glow rod casting a shimmering reflection on her short, coppery hair, and her proud blue eyes studied each of them in turn. The shadows of her face heightened the effect of the light on high cheekbones. "What Leia just pointed out is true, but think. Not all Imperial officers were aboard the Death Star. Many were out, perhaps patrolling other parts of the galaxy, perhaps conquering other systems." Ackbar winced visibly. "Yes, those who were subjugating other worlds were just as guilty as those on the Death Star. But the fact remains: only a small percentage of high Imperial officers served aboard the Death Star. Most of the men were pilots, troopers, or regular soldiers."

"That still doesn't explain-" began Madine. Well, at least someone was on her side. Across from her, Dodonna opened his mouth to argue.

Mon Mothma held up a hand. "The Old Republic, before the Empire took tangible shape, was already into the process of extending its rule to other worlds. Most of the officers in the Alliance now, and most of us-" She gestured around the table "-were involved somehow in that, no matter how much we might regret it now."

There was grudging acknowledgment from Dodonna, and Madine flinched, suddenly developing a great interest in his fingernails .

"So," continued Mon Mothma in her gentle voice, "what I am trying to explain is that the Empire's conquests actually began when the Old Republic was starting to crumble. When the Emperor officially began his rule, the conquests became much more ruthless and inhumane, that is true, but the policy was already set. The Imperials who refused to slaughter innocents under the Empire joined the Rebel Alliance. However, there are always some, in every war, that try to distort truths, try to make circumstances appear better than they really are. That might have been the case with this man. He might have been one of the ones who refused to give up hope, thinking that the Old Republic could still be saved. Or perhaps he believed that if he did not take part in so much of the killing, it would still be right for him to serve the Empire."

"There are still many people in the Imperial Fleet who believe what they're doing is right," said Madine heatedly. "The issue isn't about what is right or wrong, but about what this man believes is right and wrong. I still think we're not looking at this from the right perspective. From our discussion, I inferred that his planet was one of the first conquests of the Empire, even before the Emperor had gained nominal control. If the Empire conquered his world, it remains a mystery to me why he would ever want to serve with the Empire. To do so he would have to be as heartless and soulless as Vader himself. Such a man, it seems to me, must be utterly amoral." Ackbar tilted his head slightly in surprise, and, Leia would have thought, amusement, if the situation had not been so serious.

"You're taking the situation out of hand," said Leia patiently. Sometimes Madine could get carried away. He looked intently at her. She avoided his eyes, looked across at Ackbar. "I'm sure he's not that bad. But yes, why would a man want to serve with those who killed his family?"

"Perhaps he had no choice in the matter," put in Dodonna, not without a hint of sarcasm towards Madine. "The Empire does not usually give conquered peoples choices, you know." Leia looked at him, surprised. Dodonna usually spoke as few words as possible at meetings. In a flash of insight, she remembered Dodonna's Imperial past. Dodonna, who had given up hope when his son had been killed in an Imperial attack, who had been captured by the Imperials after he stayed behind to destroy the Yavin base. Dodonna, who was forced to walk with a cane because of his injuries, yet was now defending this man because he felt that they shared a mutual past.

Madine's voice rose, rock hard, on her left. Madine had been an Imperial officer, too, though. What was he trying to accomplish? "But to keep serving in the Navy with everything that has happened with the Death Star-"

"That was what I was coming to," said Mon Mothma. Madine fell silent. "He met with us right after we had moved to Hoth. The point I am trying to make is that after all that happened with the Death Star, he must have realized that he could not keep serving the Empire." She looked at Madine, her gaze gentle but stern. "Just as you could not keep serving the Empire."

Madine directed his glare around the table but said nothing, though Leia could feel his protest barely held in check.

"What I want to know," said Leia slowly, thoughtfully, "is how he found out we were on Hoth."

There was a thoughtful silence. No one spoke.

"He contacted me," said Mon Mothma quietly, tensely. "Privately." Silence, this time, shocked silence.. Aghast stares directed themselves at the woman standing at the head of the table. Except for Madine, who sat with an expression of sudden revelation on his face. 

"Just after the destruction of the Death Star, when we were thinking about moving here."

Leia felt rooted to her chair, muscles stiff from shock and anger. Her throat tightened. "You-_told_ him our location? You divulged it to the _Empire_?"

"Not the Empire, Leia." A muscle twitched in Mon Mothma's jaw but she held her gaze steady. "So you see, I have already trusted him once."

"It was not your decision to make," muttered Madine. He twisted his fingers together. Leia could see that they were shaking, and not from cold.

"What would you have had me do, then?" retorted Mon Mothma hotly. Everyone started at her outburst. Leia had never even known Mon Mothma had a temper, much less seen her lose it. "Tell everyone that an Imperial had contacted us? Right after the Battle of Yavin?"

"And you told him our coordinates? Right after the Battle of Yavin?"

The tense atmosphere of the room got tenser, with Mon Mothma staring at Madine defiantly and everyone else staring at Mon Mothma, horrified. Leia's heart pounded against her ribs. She took deep breaths, swallowed, hoping that the cold air would clam her. It didn't. Sure, Mon Mothma never lost her temper, but she was as stubborn as Madine was, maybe more.

"It doesn't matter now," Mon Mothma finally said, swallowing. "It is done."

Leia felt cold again, and it was not just because of the lack of power in the cave. A life or death decision for the Rebellion, and Mon Mothma had made it without consulting anyone but herself. All her arguments evaporated like moisture under the Tatooine sun. The choice had already been made, then. And if this man betrayed them to the Empire, there would be no one for Mon Mothma to blame but herself.

"Well, that's that," she heard herself say. "I guess we'll just have to play along." Ackbar looked at her, his eyes swiveling in their sockets, his Mon Calamari expression unreadable.

She felt Madine shift beside her, stand, look down at Mon Mothma. "I hope you know what you are doing," he said quietly.

"So do I, Crix," she said, looking at him, features shadowed in the light of the glow rods. "So do I."

Cam Drelnin stretched and dragged another chair closer with one leg. With a sigh, he propped both his feet up onto the seat, wincing as the metal sagged noticeably in the middle. He held his empty mug out to the side and a server droid scuttled over, a tray full of pitchers balanced on top of its flat "head." Cam couldn't recognize the model and squinted closely at it as one long spindly arm reached up to grasp a pitcher of liquid and pour it into Cam's outstretched mug. Brown liquid sloshed in, bubbling and overflowing the rim and drizzling down the sides. Grimacing, Cam replaced the mug on the four-cornered metal table in front of him, watched as the droid scurried away. He licked his fingers to rid them of the sticky ale. If the Empire was as wealthy as it was supposed to be, it could at least equip its capital ships with those new automatic server droids that made the drinking experience less of a hazard.

"Anyone know where we're going and how long it'll take us to get there?" Cam looked around the table. Harve wore a bored expression. Eln, an empty mug in front of him was staring at his fingernails. Across from Cam, Tdjel Djijrol, Delta Four, yawned and blinked. No one spoke.

Around them, the soft buzz of conversation continued. There were not that many pilots in the room, but the voices bouncing off the walls created quite a din. The mess hall, or dining room, as it was officially called, was in actuality no different in construction from most any other room on the ship, except that it was circular in shape. Located in the bowels of the Star Destroyer, its bare metal walls enclosed approximately four or five hundred tables, arranged in concentric circles around a large serving area. Vibrations and hums of machinery could be felt through the walls and the floor. Cam remembered faintly how someone had tried to count the tables in the mess hall on a particularly non active meal break two years ago. The man-a TIE Fighter pilot-had gotten dizzy after number 200 and tripped over a table, knocking himself out cold on the hard metal floor. Cam chuckled quietly. Harve glanced at him, then returned to studying the wall. 

There were holocard dispensers built into all of the tables, but they were usually out of order, and the selection of cards they offered would only appeal to an incredibly bored smuggler who had half the brain of a Gamorrean. Besides, most everyone aboard the _Protector_, Cam included, suspected the games of being rigged. No other entertainment form presented itself in the dining hall except for the holoviewscreen built into a section of the wall opposite the door, and that had been nonoperational for several years now. Well, Cam mused, considering, that the crew of the _Protector_ spent the least time in the mess hall out of all the other rooms in the ship, it was logical to install only the barest necessities inside. The problem was, during hyperspace travel, there wasn't exactly anything going on elsewhere, so the importance of the dining area changed dramatically. Except that there was nothing to do there. One of the ironies of life.

"Eln? Harve?" Cam prompted, leaning forward. "You alive?" Eln grunted. Giving up on any sign of wakefulness from the others at his table, Cam let his gaze wander around the room again. Several of the antique serving droids puttered around the room, waiting on the impatient pilots. A few tables down he spotted the rest of Gamma flight group. Gamma Nine, Craer Hadin, sat drinking and laughing with Gamma Three, Edar S'rati. 

Gamma Leader, Ben Calys, sat brooding by himself, as always. Cam leaned back, took a sip of his drink, watching him. Calys' piloting skills were amazing and had earned him more medals than Cam could count, but the man didn't have a lighthearted bone in his body. Always so serious, with that strong, brown, handsome face below hair so light it was almost white. He never drank, never laughed, or even smiled. He was the perfect gentleman to the few women aboard the Star Destroyer; never joined in the lewd jokes the others made about them, but never made a sign that he cared one way or the other. Even about Axi Quarran, Gamma Eight, the only female TIE pilot aboard the Protector. Downright cold, was how Cam would put it. To think of it, Axi wasn't exactly friendly either, though she had seemed to become friendly with Harve as of late. But Cam could understand why she kept to herself. On a ship that was ninety-eight percent male crewed, a female had to watch her own back, even with her own squadron mates. It was just Ben he didn't understand.

Cam sighed, looked the other way, saw a couple of TIE fighter pilots fast asleep and snoring with mouths open. The short, skinny one looked especially familiar, but Cam couldn't quite place him.

"Anyone want to hear a joke?" Cam looked around. Tdjel had a goofy smile on his face. Cam groaned, heard other pilots doing the same.

"NO," he said.

"C'mon, guys. I promise this joke is a good one."

"Right." Harve wore a long-suffering expression. "That's what you said when you told the Bothan joke."

"And the Corellian gunship joke," Eln put in.

"And the-"

Tdjel held up his hands. "Fine, fine. I surrender."

Outside in the corridor, a cleaning droid whirred past, followed by three techs dressed in drab gray. They stopped in the doorway, casting accusing glances at the assembled company of pilots. Finally one of them cleared his throat and spoke, shouting hoarsely to be heard above the din. "All of you who are in here, I hope your ships are in top shape, because I'm not about to go around minutely inspecting all of them." The four TIE fighter pilots at the other stable stirred and sat up. "Admiral's orders: all craft to be inspected, refitted and repaired by tomorrow."

There were standard days aboard the _Protector_, regulated by the main computer in matters of light intensity and temperature. There days were in accordance to the time on Coruscant, so a new recruit from Carida or elsewhere would have to take several days to adjust to a new sleeping and waking cycle based on Coruscant's rotation. Obviously, the high command on Imperial Center did not want its high-ranking commanders asleep when they called in to check on progress. Or perhaps, vice versa.

Finding that his words elicited little or no response, the tech raised his voice further. "The Admiral wants you to be ready to get to your fighters the very second we jump out of hyperspace. Your craft's got to be in shape if you don't want to be space dust-you never know what's out there."

The room grew quieter. "Where exactly are we going?" someone wanted to know. Cam couldn't quite identify the voice: it came somewhere close by.

The tech looked sour, shrugged. Cam felt sorry for him; he had obviously been working harder than usual with less-than-pleasing results. That actually was not surprising. The _Protector_ had originally been built with a hangar bay that held only two squadrons of TIE fighters, or twenty-four fighters. For a man like Harkov, though, who insisted on competing with the Imperial Star Destroyers, two squadrons was less than satisfactory. So the Admiral had had the _Protector_ modified, increasing hangar bay space and decreasing the size of everything else-the engine rooms, pilot ready rooms, and removing hundreds of meters of cable, wires and power conduits. 

Though the _Protector_ could now hold an additional squadron of TIE Interceptors and a half-squadron of TIE Bombers, the very newest fighter, if necessary, sacrifices had to be made. No one knew exactly who Harkov had hired to do the modifications, but the popular theory was that whoever it was had to have been blind _and_ paralyzed to put the ship in the condition it was in now. Power outlets around the hangar bay and other rooms on the bottom level gave power weakly and sporadically. If more than three outlets were being plugged into at the same time, the generators would stop working completely, plunging the whole bottom level into darkness. The tractor beam generators, in what had already become the target of several running jokes around the ship, functioned in jerks and spats, sometimes losing power halfway through pulling a ship up to the landing bay, sometimes giving a loud shriek when activated, and then dying altogether. The hyperdrive was less efficient than it should be, and atmospheric flight for the _Protector_ was nonexistent. The engines simply did not have the power to function in a gravitational field. Cam had heard that Harkov had been pestering high command for more money and parts so the ship could at least be operational again, but it seemed like his requests were the last thing on the minds of the Imperial government.

The best thing anyone could do was give them all a new flagship. The _Protector_ was good in her own way, but Victory class models were outdated and outclassed by the newer, more advanced Imperial class Star Destroyers. The more heavily armed, more intimidating ISD's had much more landing bay space than the most modified Victory Star Destroyer could ever have. If the expression on the tech's face was any sign, though, he would gladly trade an Imperial Star Destroyer for a working power outlet any day.

Across from Cam, Tdjel grunted and got to his feet. "I'll go," he mumbled. "I have a solar panel that needs some fixing up anyway." Pushing past, he disappeared into the hall.

"No jokes?" someone called out after him.

"I guess I'll go, too" sighed Harve. He looked over. "Eln? Cam? Come on."

Cam pushed back his chair. "I suppose. There's nothing better to do." He noticed Commander Calys watching him, pretended not to notice. Calys frightened him sometimes, brilliant pilot or no. He left the mess hall and headed towards the hangar bay, Harve, and Eln trailing along behind him.

The heavy airlock doors of the bay were closed in hyperspace travel, but otherwise the hangar bay of the _Protector_ looked the same as usual: rows and rows of fighters lining the walls on their racks like strange, staring, one-eyed animals, shuttles and stormtrooper transports on the far end, along with planetary drop ships for assault teams and AT-AT or AT-ST walkers. The air smelled of burnt metal and the sound of hammering was loud in the huge metal room. 

Cam walked over to his fighter, looking over her. She was a beauty, with boxy, yet streamlined, solar panel wings, and the two chin-mounted lasers. Officially, TIE pilots didn't have their own ships; they took whatever was available and functioning. For Gamma squadron it was an exception. Ben Calys believed in sticking with the same fighter in every engagement, and sometimes gave the techs a hard time by insisting that he be allowed to fly his fighter and his fighter only. But this arrangement worked out. Cam and all the others in Gamma Squadron had gotten to know their ships, unlike other TIE pilots. He knew every inch of her and the moves she was going to make. She was his ship, and his ship alone.

Cam ran a hand over one solar panel. It was twisted and bent from a dogfight with a Rebel X-wing last year and he had just never gotten around to mentioning it to the techs. Besides, he liked to be there when people fixed his ship. He felt every laser scar and scorch burn on her personally, and he didn't take it lightly when some tech did a slapdash job repairing any damage done.

Aside from the twisted panel though, everything seemed fine with his ship. He heard footsteps, thought it was a tech coming over. Turning around, he opened his mouth to tell him the problem, and found himself almost face to face with Tor Sunflier.

Tor glared at him with dark gray eyes. Shaggy blond hair cut short in the front was plastered to his neck with sweat, and his shirt was wet. "What are you looking at, flyboy?" he asked scornfully.

Cam swallowed, tried to look cocky and self-assured. Of all the things that bothered him about this ship, Tor Sunflier bothered him the most. It was bad enough that Tor was in his squadron, but every Cam went, Tor seemed to be there, looking hotly at him from under thick eyebrows. He didn't understand was what Tor had against him. He'd only talked to him about twice and had done nothing to Tor, indeed, he tried to stay out of his way as much as possible. Tor reminded him too much of home, his childhood, and unpleasant memories that he would rather not have. "I'd ask what you were looking at, Sunflier," he said jokingly, trying to smooth things out, "but I'd hate to condescend myself to your level."

"Think you're so great, aren't you?" Tor snarled. Cam jerked back, startled. "Quit staring at me. You think you've got it all. Well, I don't care for your attitude. And let me tell you something-you're _not_ the best pilot in the squadron. Hate to break it to you. So quit acting so superior!"

Cam stared at him, watching Tor's face suddenly change into his stepfather's furious countenance, felt the sharp pain of blows on his head, tasted the metallic taste of blood in his mouth._ "You're nothing, so quit acting like you're going to be something someday! You think you're so great, don't you? Get out! If I ever see you back here I'll kill you!"_

And he saw himself again, just standing there, taking the blows from his stepfather's hands, because to do anything less would have been a sign of weakness, and weakness was the one thing that he could not afford to show in front of his family. He had to be strong, fend for himself, show nothing. It was an issue of survival.

"Well?" Tor growled. "You just going to stand there? Move!"

Cam felt the tears at the backs of his eyes, ignored them. "No," he said calmly, arrogantly. _Never let them see you weaken_. "What's it to you?"

Before he could turn and stride away, he heard boots on the deck behind him. A calm, hard voice. Too hard and too calm. _Uh-oh_. They were in trouble.

"Is there a problem here?"

He heard Tor salute, clear his throat. "Uh-Gamma Leader…"

Cam looked around and saw the expressionless face of Ben Calys staring at him, light eyes taking in first Tor, then Cam. He said nothing, but the silence was enough. Cam shifted his feet, looked down at the deck. "I was just joking, sir," he said softly.

"Drelnin, dismissed!" Calys' voice was sharp. Cam needed no second notice. He threw a hurried salute and began walking from the hangar as fast as dignity permitted. Behind him he heard Tor starting to try to explain to Gamma Leader but his voice suddenly cut off, followed by Calys' voice, low and angry.

"And you, Sunflier, I need to see you in my office. _Now_."


	5. Four: Flying Lessons

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This is a work of fan fiction and all canon characters, scenes, and concept are the property of LucasArts. Original characters and plot property of Gerald Tarrant.

Please do not repost this fanfiction without permission.  
lordofmerentha@yahoo.com 

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Four: Flying Lessons

The figure on the viewscreen moved, froze, mouth half-open. Frowning under his mask, Vader tapped the control with the Force once more. "-ord Vader," finished Harkov.

Turning, Vader paced stealthily across the length of the darkened filmroom, keeping his eyes fixed on Harkov's image. The room was not wide; a few steps either way and he would reach the walls. He felt the edges of frustration nagging at the corner of his mind, along with the feeling that he should know what that expression on the admiral's face was. But he did not.

His pacing was quite loud now, black boots echoing along the polished black floor. He stopped, turned, looked closely at Harkov's image again. Yes, the fear was there, but Vader had already seen that. Frustration gathered. That expression-there was something about it that sent a quiet alarm bell off in his head, but the fuzzy tape was not helping. Vader resumed his caged stalking, counting off possibilities in his mind.

It was not any look he had seen an Imperial officer wear before. Not stark terror. Worry? No, that was not right. Wariness? There was a little of it in Harkov's eyes, but on the whole, his face was too drawn. Vader stopped, slammed a fist into open palm. Call it intuition, premonition, or the Force, but in the back of his mind Vader knew that it would be dangerous, even fatal, for him to let this pass.

Vader had never considered himself to be good at reading expressions; never had needed to be. His command was law, and to disobey it was death. No one would have ever considered disobeying him. At least, no one until now.

But that could not be it. Everything so far-the transmission from Zaarin at Endor, the coordinates of Harkov's hyperspace jump, all lead to a rational conclusion: the Sepan system was Harkov's destination. Harkov was a trustworthy man; if he decided to go elsewhere, he would have contacted Vader. No, the look was not one of disobedience.

Frustration grew, and along with it, anger. Vader rewound the tape with the Force, began it again, watching closely.

There was a metallic screech, a hiss, the door to the film room opened. Vader whirled, spotted the officer standing nervously outside. Reaching out his hand, he closed it into a fist. The man rose into the air, clutching at his collar, face turning a sickly shade of purple, legs flailing wildly. "Lord...Vader, please...Lord...Vader...the..."

"I gave specific orders that I was not to be disturbed!" The dark side swelled. Vader's grip closed tighter. Anger boiled up. "Could you not follow simple instructions?"

"...Emperor..." the man choked out.

Vader released his grip abruptly. The officer fell onto the floor with a muffled thump and lay there, twitching slightly. "What?" he demanded.

"A call..." the officer breathed in deep, noisy breaths, gasping for air.

Turning, Vader strode out of the room and into the wide hallway. Immediately, his two bodyguards detached themselves from the gray wall and moved in, one in front, one behind. 

The bodyguards were a constant annoyance to Vader. He did not need bodyguards and did not want bodyguards, but somehow he had acquired eight of them. If he could spare the time and energy to get rid of them, he would, but unfortunately he had neither at the moment. So the bodyguards stayed, to his great dismay. Most of the time, he ignored them, hoping that they would somehow fade quietly away. No blaster, no matter how good the aim, was any match for the dark side.

The corridor twisted and turned, branching off into narrower halls on both sides. Droids moved along slowly, cleaning the already shining floor. Small lamps set into the walls illuminated the hall steadily, and the air held a faintly exotic scent. There was the occasional guard stationed in front of blasterproof doors, but no stormtroopers. Vader despised stormtroopers, no matter how useful they might be. Small cameras set into the high ceiling monitored every move, with hidden cameras also installed in each chamber and in all the walls at regular intervals. There were no plants by the doors, no pictures or holo images on the walls, no decorative patterns above the hallway arches. Even to those who knew this place well, the Dark Lord's castle was as stark and forbidding as the Dark Lord himself.

Vader turned, stalked down a corridor to the right. The bodyguards dropped behind and followed. Barely slowing, he reached out with the Force. The large door to the left unlocked with a click and opened, and he stepped inside.

As always, the holochamber was barely lit. The small circular room gleamed dimly in the bluish glow. Through his helmet, Vader could smell the faint odor of fresh cleaning solution emanating off the walls. The room was bare except for the projector in the center of the floor. Vader took a deep, laborious breath, winced at the pain, knelt, touched the Force and activated the holofield.

He lowered his head and stared at the floor, seeing as he did so a spark of light, hearing a slight hum as the holoproj sprang to life.

There came a soft voice out of the air above his head, deceptively gentle, and the sound of it seemed to stir the stillness of the darkened room. "Rise, my friend."

Vader rose, looked up. The enlarged image was of the cowled head and shoulders of an old man. Wizened yellow eyes looked out of the depths of the hood above wrinkled, pasty white, aged-flecked skin. The thin mouth crooked in a half-smile. The Emperor.

"What is thy bidding, my master?"

The Emperor spoke, seemingly present in this room, deep in the bowels of Vader's castle, in reality far away inside a mountain throne room on a hidden planet. "I understand, Lord Vader, that you have conveyed my wishes to Admiral Harkov?"

Vader inclined his head slightly. "I have, my master."

"And he has departed to Sepan."

Vader hesitated. "He has."

The Emperor caught the slight pause. "Is there a problem, Lord Vader?"

"I...I am not sure, my master," Vader confessed. "I felt something wrong in the way Harkov behaved during our meeting. Something in his expression."

"But he has followed orders and gone to Sepan." The Emperor's tone was flat.

"I believe so. My sources indicate that he has."

The Emperor raised his eyebrows slightly. "Sources are not always to be trusted, Lord Vader. There is only one absolute, and that is the dark side."

"Yes, my master."

Abruptly, the Emperor's manner changed, became distant, detached. "Remember, Lord Vader, anger is the dark side. Cling to your anger. Nurture it, let it grow, and you will gain the power of the dark side." His eyelids closed halfway over those yellow eyes, as if he were looking at something far away.

The sinister image turned back to Vader, eyes focusing. "Harkov is a fine officer and I have little reason to fear treachery. But the unexpected may happen. You will keep me informed of this." It was a command. 

Vader bowed his head in assent.

"Now," the Emperor said. "The boy."

Vader frowned. "The boy, my master?"

"Yes," the Emperor said, a bit impatiently. "The boy you informed me of earlier. Old Obi-Wan's last pupil."

Vader had a flash of recognition. "Yes."

"I, too, have felt a slight ripple in the Force. The potential in him must be strong indeed."

"He is strong, my master. I have faced him."

The Emperor smiled. "Ah, yes. I had quite forgotten."

Vader felt a chill. The Emperor had not forgotten; it was just his way of warning Vader not to speak out of turn. He bent his head.

"Come, come, Lord Vader," the Emperor coaxed. "I did not call from Mount Tantiss to see you do penance." He paused. "A pity that boy is working for the Rebellion. He could be useful."

"Of course," Vader murmured, aware he had just been given another responsibility. As the Emperor already knew, that should not be too difficult. With his own vast spynet and Coruscant's various other shady organizations, he should be able to obtain the information he wanted. 

But there was something the Emperor did not know: that Vader already knew in part who the boy was. And this knowledge troubled him most of all. 

_A Skywalker? How can that be?_

He realized that he was drifting, turned his attention back to the holo image. "I expect you to keep me informed, Lord Vader," said the Emperor. "I shall not keep you any longer; I have urgent matters here. I will be returning soon. Do not underestimate the power of the dark side."

Vader knelt and terminated the connection. The Emperor vanished. He stood, black cape brushing the floor. There was so much that needed to be done, but he made no move towards the door; just stood and thought, thought about the Rebellion, thought about the boy, about Harkov, and the dark side of the Force.

They had finally gotten some power installed in some of the smallish caves adjoining the control room, and Mon Mothma had moved into one of them for use as an office. The cave was circular and the ceiling was slightly dome-shaped, reminding her of her mother's study back on Chandrila when Mon Mothma had been a child. The walls and ceiling had been constructed out of glass-real glass-and the room had been filled with hundreds of tiny crystal figurines. On sunny days, light poured in, reflecting off the crystal, transforming the room into a beautiful, dazzling display of color. 

She sighed, looking now around at the bare rocky walls, so different from her childhood home. The cave had been naturally formed, as the whole series of interlinking caverns had, and the floor was hard and uneven, with sharp rock formations against the walls. Despite the added heat, the room was still cold. She would have liked to have stayed on Yavin, but of course the issue was not what she liked but what the Alliance needed. And it was her duty, as chief of state, to provide that for them.

A smallish desk stood in the middle of the room, along with a middle-sized tactical display and communications gear, not yet hooked up to the main system. Bags and boxes sat piled against one another opposite the door. A chair, some datacards, a computer...So many things she used to take for granted. Since the Rebellion, she had learned that even everyday conveniences were acquired less easily than it seemed.

But as she looked around the small cave, Mon Mothma felt a sense of pride, remembering the effort it had taken to put those small bands of resistance together all those years ago. She was proud, not only because of the success of her accomplishment, but also because of the dedication of others to the cause. If it had been only her alone overseeing the Rebellion she knew it would have failed a long time before. But the Alliance had men and women, human and nonhuman, working all hours of the day, putting forth more effort than she could have possibly dreamed of, all because they felt it was the right things to do. For this, she was proud.

The techs should be in here soon, to do more work on the lights. As she turned, began unpacking the large bags against the wall, there was a slight knock, barely perceptible through the thick blasterproof metal door. Mon Mothma paused, frowned. The techs still had the whole outside cave section to do; it could not be them yet. She raised her voice slightly. "Come in."

The door slid open. She turned, saw General Madine standing there. He looked ill at ease, the handsome lines of his face more tense, his eyes looking at her with a guarded expression. Mon Mothma felt surprise inwardly, but did not let herself show it. This was certainly a surprise visit, since Madine had been conspicuously avoiding her for the past few days. She stood. "Crix," she said, dropping formalities, hoping that he would feel more comfortable.

He stepped into the room, eyes taking in the disarray. She smiled. "I agree, it's not much, is it? But it's a beginning."

Madine took a deep breath, came forward a few more steps. The door slid shut behind him. "I...came to apologize," he said slowly, then speaking faster, tripping over his words. "I-I was wrong to have lost my temper. I shouldn't have-have said anything."

She took a step towards him, letting the bags fall from her hands. "Crix, you needn't apologize." He started to protest. She held up a hand. "Please. This is a difficult time for us all, with the move just underway, and the entrance of this particular problem was very sudden, I know. Even the galaxy's most infinitely patient person would have gotten angry over something sooner or later." She sighed. "I should be apologizing to you."

Madine looked surprised, then shocked. "No! Listen, I was the one who brought up the idea of a meeting, and then the one who spoke against it the whole way. It was entirely my mistake, my fault."

Mon Mothma smiled. "As you wish. But I will accept your apology on one condition." 

He looked surprised and wary. "What's that?"

"That you accept mine."

Madine's face broke into a relieved smile. "I accept your condition."

"Thank you. Crix, please don't think about it any further. We must look ahead and see what is to be done."

"With _him_?" Madine's smile disappeared.

"I know you still don't approve, but it's the only way. He knows our location now. The only thing we can do is to hear him out."

"He might be a double agent." Madine held his ground stubbornly. "Who knows with the Empire?"

"When you first joined the Alliance, there were those who suspected you of being the same."

He set his jaw. Madine was a stubborn man; she knew what it had taken him to come apologize to her. "Please, Crix. Don't make this harder than it is. He's coming again, hopefully in a few weeks or so; I want you to be present again, along with Leia and Ackbar. Listen, and decide then."

His face relaxed then, but he did not smile. He pushed back tousled, wavy gray-streaked hair with one brown hand. "All right," he conceded. He managed a small, tight smile. "Stubborn as always, aren't you?"

Mon Mothma assumed a look of mock horror. "_I'm_ stubborn? I think you'd better leave right now before you go any further and cause me to drop something important."

Madine's smile became genuine. "Oh, you think you have a lot to unpack? You want to come over and see my office-?"

Laughing, Mon Mothma waved him off. The door slid shut behind him and she turned back to her unpacking. Crix Madine was a brilliant soldier and a decisive tactical advisor, but trying to change his mind was like trying to convince a Hutt to lift a bounty off of someone's head. That was the problem-Madine's military genius carried over a bit too far into the other aspects of life. When he took a stand, he was staying with that decision if he was right or not, and woe to the one who told him otherwise. Her lips twisted in a slight smile that faded quickly. Madine might be stubborn, but she could be even more so at times, to a fault. She thought of Bel Iblis, wondered if things could have turned out differently if she had backed down during that last quarrel. 

Mon Mothma unwrapped a pile of datacards and piled them onto the desk. Still, Madine was a soldier, not a politician. Ultimately, the Imperial decision was up to her. Would she allow this man to join, or would she decide the opposite? She did not quite like the idea of trusting an Imperial. Perhaps Madine was right after all.

So many gains, so many losses. Such was the way of war. For the one who took the wrong step, there would be no second chance. It was a costly risk; a very costly risk. Gamble with death too many times and eventually you will lose.

Troubled, Mon Mothma turned slowly back to her work.

Kelgyn leaned forward, trying to see around the sharp curve in the bend ahead. The high rocky walls of the Hierda canyon rose far off to either side of the T-16 skyhopper. Below, the Hierda river foamed against the smooth weathered rocks, waves breaking white against the sides of the canyon, swollen by the seasonal rains. Sharp rock formations leaning jaggedly out from the canyon walls had the potential to send a careless pilot careening below to his death.

Adjusting his speed accordingly, Kelgyn leaned hard to the right, the skyhopper pulling over sideways to skim around the almost ninety degree turn in the canyon. One airfoil tip brushed the rock, sending sparks flying. The skyhopper careened further to the right. Kelgyn pulled left, trying to steady the craft. The skyhopper wobbled, straightened.

Kelgyn heaved a sigh of relief and released his death grip on the control stick. His fingers were shaking and his heart pounded in his ears. That had been close. A few more meters to the right and he would have been nothing but smoking wreckage on the rock wall.

He had never actually seen an Incom T-16 skyhopper before, much less flown one. He had seen holos of them, of course, back on Myrkr-to own a skyhopper or a swoop had been his fondest dream before he left for the Academy-but his family had been too poor to even afford a secondhand landspeeder. He remembered holding animated discussions with friends about the newest designs in the sportcraft market, and one of the foremost topics of discussion had always been the T-16. None of the others back in Hyllyard City owned a skyhopper either, but all of them had studied the holos until they knew them by heart-the E-161x ion engine that enabled the ship to reach nearly impossible speeds of up to 1,200 kilometers per hour, the DCJ-45 repulsorlifts, the unique tri-wing airfoil design, and the forward airfoil splitting the windshield down the center.

Of course, actually flying the thing was much different than just staring at the holos. All the T-16's owned by the Academy were modified standard Imperial models, with a heavy-duty laser cannon affixed to the ventral side. The ship was amazingly maneuverable, due to the two gyrostabilizers under the lower airfoils, and one small motion of the control stick was enough to sent the T-16 careening onto a whole different course if the pilot was not careful. Kelgyn had learned that in one of the earlier trial runs in the skyhopper, almost crashing into the side of the Academy. His flight instructor had been furious. And the split windshield was harder to get used to than he had thought. Kelgyn had not flown very many craft back on Myrkr, but it was still hard for him not to focus on the long metal strip in the middle of the windshield. Daral had told him that it was no problem to adjust to, but then Daral could fly a rock if he had to, he was such a good pilot. Kelgyn-well, Commander Dalten had said he'd seen worse. Kelgyn's mouth twisted sourly at the remembered conversation. Oh, well.

Ahead, the canyon narrowed considerably, just barely wide enough for the T-16 to fit through with the lower airfoils almost brushing the canyon walls. Daral had explained this part of the run to Kelgyn in detail, assuring him that it was quite simple, even safe, to do a couple of barrel rolls before the canyon widened again. Just thinking about it now made his hands start to sweat, slicking the control stick and making it hard to grasp. Kelgyn swore to himself that he would kill Daral after this. Then again, there might not be anything left of him to kill Daral with.

The skyhopper wobbled, swerved to the left. Kelgyn swallowed. _Concentrate!_ He knew Commander Dalten was up there behind him in another T-16. Perhaps to make sure that his remains would be taken care of. Whatever the reason, Dalten probably wasn't too pleased with Kelgyn's flying on this run. _Don't make any more stupid mistakes._

The canyon twisted to the left, then the right, then the left again, then widened into a fork. Kelgyn pulled to the left. There was a steep drop downwards, then the walls narrowed once more, this time into a long tunnel going underneath the rock. All right, this was the fun part. Kelgyn reduced his speed to 200 km per hour, almost to a crawl, and flew towards the opening.

His upper airfoil brushed the top of the tunnel as the skyhopper entered, but there was no harm done. The tunnel was dark but light enough for him to judge the distance between the walls and ship without having to turn on exterior lights. The route was jagged but straight, carved millions of years ago by the crashing river against the rocks.

Kelgyn sped out of the tunnel, confidence boosted by the successful completion of that area of the canyon run, then froze in terror. Not more than 200 meters away, the canyon ended, a flat rock face stretching vertically upward. 

__

What!? 

Kelgyn's pulse roared in his ears, and his mind whirled. _This is it. I'm going to die._ The wall loomed closer.

Unthinkingly he reached over, increased his speed. _What are you doing?_ his mind shouted at him, but he pushed forward on the lever slowly, watching the gauge creep upwards. The ship, though leaping forward, seemed to suddenly move slower. He pulled the control stick back with all his strength and all the ship could give. The skyhopper soared skyward, in a vertical climb hard enough to make anyone feel sick with terror, but Kelgyn only felt an incredible calm, as if he was not within less than 50 meters of being obliterated on the canyon wall. 

His free hand moved over the controls, pressing lighted buttons in rapid sequence, hardly aware of what he was doing. The ship seemed to tilt back farther, if it were possible. There was a scraping noise and the skyhopper gave a jolt, then burst out onto level ground.

Kelgyn's mind seemed to clear. The first thing he realized was that he was heading the wrong way, away from the Academy. The second thing he realized was that his hands were shaking, but not enough. A life-threatening maneuver like he had just performed should bring on all the symptoms of at least a full-force heart attack. He shook his head, trying to bring to mind the significance of the thing he'd just done. Kelgyn frowned. Surely that hadn't been the right way out of the canyon. No one had ever mentioned it to him before. Then again, it was logical that they shouldn't have. But a climb that steep-!

He heard the whine of repulsorlifts in the distance, approaching. Dalten would have his head for sure. He looked out to his left, spotted another T-16 with Imperial markings drop down beside him. The comlink in his helmet crackled, and Commander Dalten's furious voice sounded harshly in Kelgyn's ears. "Kid, don't you ever scare me like that again! You dimwit! You were supposed to take the _other_ route at the fork in the canyon!"

Kelgyn smiled ruefully. _Oh, man_. "Sorry, sir. Sometimes I have trouble telling my right from my left."

"Sorry!" The comlink exploded. "You could have been killed! I don't see how you managed to escape that!" There was a silence. When he spoke again, Dalten had calmed down a bit, now sounding almost awed. "And I take back everything I said to you yesterday. How did you ever do that? I've been flying for twenty-seven years, and I've never seen anything close to what you just did."

"I...don't know, sir," Kelgyn confessed. To think about it, even his hands had stopped shaking. "I didn't think; I just went. It was kind of hard to think just then. I don't even remember what I did."

"Must have been that adrenaline, huh?" The other skyhopper veered off towards the landing field. Kelgyn followed him. "Well, congratulations anyway. You managed to tear your bottom cannon off pretty neatly, but no harm done. And I'd rather lose the cannon than lose you." He paused, continued with reverence. "Man, now that was flying!"

Kelgyn grinned. He did have something to tell Daral when he got home.

The two skyhoppers circled over the landing field, then dropped slowly down, searching for free spaces amid the crowded, parked vehicles. Kelgyn found one, slowly settled down, felt the soft bump of landing repulsorlifts against the landing pad.

He keyed all systems on standby and exited the craft. There was a shout from behind him. He turned, saw Commander Dalten walking over.

"Hey kid," Dalten said, grinning. His Imperial uniform, as always, was cleanly pressed, the various medals hanging on it shining in the scorching Caridan sun. His right hand moved up to brush his dark brown hair away from his forehead. The left sleeve was empty; Dalten had lost it in a flying accident several years ago. He had never bothered to have himself fitted with an artificial arm, insisting to anyone who asked that he needed no prosthetic part to help him do his job. And, though that sounded just like another of the overinflated boastings of an arrogant official, new recruits to Carida soon found out that it was the truth. Dalten continued to fly, fly with all the skill, and maybe more, of anyone with two good arms.

Dalten whistled at the sight of Kelgyn's craft close up. Kelgyn's heart clenched up at the sight. The bottom mounted laser cannon had been thoroughly smashed against the canyon face. Bits of metal scrap hung off the ventral side of the skyhopper; the rest of the cannon was probably lying at the bottom of the canyon-just where Kelgyn might have been had he seen the danger half a second too late. The bottom side of the lower airfoils had been scratched and blackened as well.

Kelgyn looked anxiously up at his superior for signs of a reprimand. Dalten just stood there, shaking his head. "I gotta give it to you, kid," he said at last. "You can fly after all."

Kelgyn smiled back, shaky but relieved. "Thank you, sir."

Dalten waved him off. "You're dismissed, cadet. I'll get a tech over to look at your ship and try to salvage it."

Jogging off, Kelgyn headed towards the entrance of the dormitory building, intent on finding Daral and telling him all about his flight. Clouds of dust puffed out under his feet as he ran. He turned the corner of the building and spotted Daral leaning against the door column, head down, staring at the ground.

Kelgyn ran towards him, barely suppressing his excitement. "Hey! Daral! Guess what I just-"

He stopped in midsentence, slowing to a walk as Daral raised his head and stared at him. He looked terrible. His white-blond hair was uncombed, his face looked haggard, as if he had not slept in weeks, but it was his eyes that scared Kelgyn, as if the fire had gone out of them, leaving them dull and listless and lifeless. Their light color had always made him look exotic, now it made him look like a ghoul. 

"Daral?" Kelgyn ran forward, stopped, looked up at his friend. "What-what happened?"

Daral stared at him for a moment as if just realizing that someone was there, then gave a short back of a laugh. "What happened? I'm getting booted out of the Academy, that's what happened." His face was set, strained, the expression on it threatening to give way to bitter fury.

Kelgyn felt like all his muscles had gone numb. "Good skies," he whispered, aghast, the inside of his mouth suddenly dry. "You're being expelled?" For the first time he noticed the luggage piled at Daral' feet. "What did you do?"

Daral looked uncomprehending at first, then his eyes narrowed and his face reddened, rage flowing out of him. "What did I do? Oh, yeah, I forgot. I'm always the one who's wrong, always the guy at fault. Sure, go ahead, blame me! Go ahead!"

"Daral!" Kelgyn grabbed him by the shoulders, lowering his voice. "It's all right, buddy. You'll be okay."

"Sure," Daral muttered. Kelgyn felt his friend's muscles go limp and he sagged against the wall, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

"My brother," Daral began, before Kelgyn could say anything more. "You know my brother Keth?" Kelgyn nodded. Daral swallowed, continued with forced calmness. "He'd been going through drug rehabilitation…he was ok when I left. I thought it was over. That he was all right. He was set to take over Father's position." He swallowed, his voice softening, becoming brittle and fragile. "I don't really know exactly what happened after that; all Commander Regateri would tell me was that there was an accident. Keth…well apparently the rehab sessions hadn't helped at all. He and some of his friends…got in a fight, I guess. I don't know the details, but it turns out that two of the Emperor's most trusted advisors are dead now and one seriously wounded." Daral laughed again, a forced, hard laugh. Kelgyn winced at the harsh sound

Kelgyn waited, half involuntarily, for the boasting to start, the tales of self heroics that usually came with talk of marksmanship. Suddenly, he realized that Daral had stopped talking. He looked up, saw Daral blinking rapidly, realized that his friend was trying not to cry. Something inside Kelgyn broke, suddenly, and he felt the tears coming, too. He'd only met Keth once when the other stopped by briefly on his way to Corellia, but he'd liked the grave young man, felt the life in the other's assured smile and firm handshake.

"But anyway," Daral said, seemingly in control of himself again, a hint of the old cockiness showing through. Only someone like Kelgyn who knew him well, could tell how hard it was for Daral to maintain that air. "The Emperor wasn't very happy about the incident. In fact, he was downright furious."

Daral's voice broke and he rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. "I'm sure never going back to Imperial Center again. It's official now. All Krellises banned from Imperial Center and all other Imperial held worlds. The Emperor took our lands, our stocks, everything. Like it just wasn't enough for us to lose our reputation and have our family branded for having a-a killer in our midst!" His voice rose a fraction. "We didn't do anything. Just because Keth made one mistake-" He stopped, couldn't go on, turned his face to the wall. Kelgyn stood, unable to offer a word of comfort or advice. What did you say to your best friend at a time like this? What _could_ you say?

A door opened to the left, the official administrative building of the Imperial Caridian Academy. Kelgyn turned, saw two men dressed in nondescript civilian clothing exit the building. The door slid shut. "Boy!" One of them called. They came closer. Both had sneering, weasellike expressions; the one on the left was short and fat with brown hair, the other one thin and bald. "Hey," the short one yelled. "We're goin'! We're gettin' outta here!"

Kelgyn looked at Daral in shock. "You're leaving? Now? But-"

"The Emperor has a tight schedule. When did you think I was leaving?" Daral spat, gesturing to his bags. Kelgyn took a step back. The fire was back in Daral's eyes, but it was a different kind, full of hopelessness and despair, and something else that frightened Kelgyn, something wild and more inhumane than anything else. 

Daral saw Kelgyn's look, and his face changed, an expression Kelgyn had never seen Daral wear before, something akin to a plea for reassurance. "Look, Kel-I don't know who these men are and where they're taking me. I-"He stopped. It was as close as Kelgyn had ever seen him come to admitting that he was afraid.

"Boy!" The two men were closer now. The bald one was gesturing to Kelgyn to move out of the way.

"Yeah, I know," said Kelgyn quietly. His mind spun. Now? To lose Daral, too..."Hey, I'll miss you, Daral."

"Yeah." Daral looked uncomfortable. "Guess I'll see you around sometime, maybe."

"Sure." Kelgyn tried to smile, couldn't quite manage. "Keep in touch, okay?"

"Yeah," Daral said, both of them knowing it would probably never happen. The two men reached them. The bald one took Daral's bags, while the short one stood there impatiently, waiting for him. "I'll try. Hey, Kel-thanks for everything."

They stood there a moment, look at each other, not quite knowing how to put feelings into words. Kelgyn could see the unshed tears at the corners of Daral's eyes glimmering brightly in the sunlight, and he felt a sudden stab of loneliness. He had been roommates-best friends!-with Daral for three years, and only now at the end of this tragedy, did he feel like he was starting to know the person inside of that arrogant facade, the real Daral Krellis behind his public mask. It wasn't fair, that everything had to end like this. It wasn't fair.

Finally, Daral said, "Tell Kent when he comes back from his run not to worry about me. Tell him I said goodbye and good luck." He started to say something else, shook his head and moved off quickly.

"Daral!" Kelgyn began, then broke off, not quite knowing what to say.

His friend turned, smiled crookedly, gave the thumbs-up sign. "I'll be all right." He walked off then, the familiar swagger returning in his walk. Kelgyn felt sadness, yet relief at seeing Daral acting like himself again. _That's how I want to remember him. Fearless, bold, everything he was before this happened._

The bald man had reached the standard civilian transport parked at the end of the field, a little ways from the last building. Kelgyn watched as the two men, then Daral, disappeared inside. The landing ramp hissed, retracted. There was a long minute, then the repulsorlifts kicked in with a low whine and hum. The ship trembled, clumsily lifted. Too bad Daral wasn't flying. He could probably fly that transport like it was a top-of-the-line Interceptor. A fresh jolt of pain struck Kelgyn. An Interceptor that Daral would never have. Daral deserved more, so much more.

Kelgyn shook his head, blinked. For some reason he seemed to have trouble seeing. When he looked again, the ship was a silver speck against the white clouds, then was gone. Just like that. They hadn't even really had a chance to say goodbye.

"Daral," he whispered to the sky, remembering the Myrkr farewells of long ago, so long ago... "Daral, may the Force be with you."


	6. Five: The Civil War

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This is a work of fan fiction and all canon characters, scenes, and concept are the property of LucasArts. Original characters and plot property of Gerald Tarrant.

Please do not repost this fanfiction without permission.  
lordofmerentha@yahoo.com 

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Five: The Civil War

_"Anakin."_

The voice came from far away, echoing in the infinite blackness around him, yet it was little more than a whisper, full of longing and sorrow.

_"Anakin. Anakin Skywalker."_

It was a woman's voice, bouncing oddly off the clouds of black mist into the distance. A woman's voice, somehow familiar, but yet one he could not place in a definite place and time, its tremulous tone breaking as she called his name-his name? Was that his name?-over and over.

There came a silence then. He heard a droning noise in the distance, then came the sound of crying, a baby's crying, the noise with the same unreal quality that the voice had had.

_"Anakin."_ He heard weeping now, the woman's weeping mingling with the cries of the child. _"Anakin Skywalker. Anakin-"_ The voice was cut off, suddenly. The baby's crying grew louder, then a loud wail that was suddenly silenced as well. He felt alone, knew he was alone.

The droning noise came steadily closer, louder. Three shadowy shapes shot out of the mist, insubstantial, one veering to his right, another to his left, the third overhead. He ducked, instinctively, saw that they were TIE Interceptors. They passed him, engines roaring, dagger wings gleaming as if tipped with blood. Slowly, the droning noise faded into the distance.

The blackness closed in, then another voice, whispering the same name, over and over again, unceasing. A male voice, again somehow familiar, a voice from the shadowed past. 

_"Anakin Skywalker, Anakin Skywalker, Anakin Skywalker, Anakin-"_

The mists seemed to part and he saw the hooded figure of an old man, hands gripping the hilt of a crackling energy blade, stepping slowly back._ "Anakin Skywalker-"_

The hooded figure stood, motionless, lightsaber extended, and then began to move, oh, so slowly, moved his lightsaber upwards, to an upright position before his face, head erect, unflinching, a gesture of deference, mouth curved upwards so slightly in what might have been a secret smile. _"Anakin, Anakin Skywalker-"_

A red blade flashed out of nowhere, impossibly slow, its arc downwards seeming to take forever, sparks flying as it intersected with the shoulder of the standing figure. The voice ceased. The figure swayed, crumpled to the floor, but there was no solidity to it, nothing but an empty cloak.

A single empty shout rang through the darkness, full of hate and grief. _"Nooooo...!"_ Footsteps, running, fading.

The mists closed again, and then crying, the same child crying. The woman's voice, weeping. _"Anakin Skywalker..."_ He felt himself receding, receding from that place. _"Anakin Skywalker..."_

With a start, he awoke. There was just a dim glow lighting the meditation chamber. The holoclock read just after midnight. Darth Vader gripped the arms of the meditation chair he rested in, naked, breathed in slow measured breaths, and tried to puzzle out the meaning of the strange dream.

Obi-Wan!

Why had he dreamed of Obi-Wan, of all people? The old man was dead, gone, a nuisance that he did not need to bother with ever again. He saw again in his mind Obi-Wan raising his blade in submission, not bothering to defend himself as Vader stepped forward to cut him down. What a fool his old teacher had been. What a fool he had once been to actually have been under the old man's tutelage, to have listened to his misguided mumblings.

But he had been Anakin Skywalker then, weak, misguided, not knowing the power of the dark side. He thought back to the dream, heard the voices calling his name. But no, that was not his name. He was Darth Vader, Dark Lord of the Sith, not the foolish Jedi Anakin Skywalker. That name he had renounced long ago.

So why had those voices been calling him as such-?

In a flash of recognition he identified the other voice, the woman.

His wife.

Padmé…

Yes, his wife, from long before. He had to think back to recall the memories of her, what she looked like. Too far back. And he did not really care.

Still, that was another puzzle to solve. Why had he been dreaming of her, a phantom of the past, a part of the life he had sworn to forget forever? He took another deep breath of the super oxygenated air, wondered what it would be like to breathe freely without the breath mask, to walk without wearing the heavy armor, without forever trying to hide under his cloak the various devices he needed to stay alive. To walk as a man, as he had before Obi-Wan-

No.

With effort he turned his thoughts back to the dream. The voice at the end, crying out at Obi-Wan's death, he remembered well enough. It was the boy that had been one of those accompanying the old Jedi aboard the captured freighter, the one who had taken the Princess. The one the Emperor had charged him to look for. Skywalker. The familiar name sent an unpleasant feeling over him. Not fear. Just a...premonition that this boy had more to do with him than he supposed. Could he be a relative? Vader tried to remember the boy's face clearly, saw only Obi-Wan standing there, smiling regretfully. _If you strike me down, I will only become more powerful than you could possibly imagine._

Well, he had struck him down. And where was Obi-Wan now? It had been necessary to slay him, the last of the Jedi Knights. That last futile boast, attempting to frighten Vader into sparing his life. How wrong Kenobi had been.

Vader rarely ever dreamed. When he did, his dreams were usually meaningless, full of blood and death-things that were normal and routine to him, nothing worth examining. But this particular dream troubled him more than he cared to admit. Surely it had come to him through the Force, leading him to see things of the past and future. Perhaps if he were more adept at controlling the dark side he could wrestle the meaning from the images, but as it was, he was still discovering the power for himself. The ways of the Force were strange, the ways of the dark side especially so, but eventually all things would be shown to their proper place. He would worry about the dream then.

For he was Dark Lord of the Sith, and even the dark side was at his command.

Vader slowed his breathing and fell into a troubled sleep.

The lines of hyperspace flared around the _Protector_ and the Victory Star Destroyer shot into a realspace of gleaming stars, various shards of floating space debris, a small 

blue-green planet, and...in the distance, five unidentified ships.

The ship's sensors picked them up first, but Harkov saw them from the _Protector_'s large front window. He directed a glance to the sensor officer in charge down in the tactical crew pit. The officer tapped the controls on his console, keyed up on the screen what looked to be a detailed scan of the surrounding area. 

"Seems like those are the only ships out here that aren't with our fleet, sir," he said, pulling up a preliminary reading on the five ships ahead. Harkov came up, peered over the other's shoulder. At this distance, all the sensors could pick up was-well, not much. The ships were some kind of freighters, but the make and model were unknown-certainly not even close to any kind of freighter Harkov had seen before. The front, or what seemed to the front of these ships, was shaped like a pointed half-circle, while something that looked like a wide iscoceles triangle was tacked onto the back, giving the freighter a kind of clumsy, arrowlike shape. A pair of cone-shaped objects were set on the dorsal side of the hull where the two shapes met. Shield generators? The ships sported two engines, one on each side on the ventral side of the "triangle." From the top, the freighters looked rather like cones with engines. Harkov had never seen stranger looking ships, nor ones that looked more incapable of flying, but his long career with the Navy had taught him never to underestimate.

"Smugglers?" he directed this to the officer, who shrugged.

"Possibly," he conceded. "I can't be too sure until we're close enough to get a better reading on those ships."

Harkov walked to the side of the tactical control station, tapped the "on" switch of the bridge intercom. "Helm, this is the Admiral. I want increased speed ahead. Continue until told otherwise."

"Yes, sir," came the quick response. There was a noticeable jolt and thumping noise as the _Protector_ shifted forward, engine readouts showing a power increase of 30 percent. A universal groan rose from the crewers on the bridge, and inwardly Harkov sighed. He really should see to having his flagship repaired, especially since-

"I want yellow alert," Harkov said. He leaned into the intercom. "This is Harkov. All fighters on standby." As the light began flashing on the bridge, he added, almost as an afterthought, "put in a comm to the captain of the _Harpax_. Activate gravity well generators immediately."

"Trouble, Admiral?" wondered the tactical officer.

"I don't know," said Harkov grimly. "But it never hurts to be cautious. And if it is, well, then I want the upper hand."

The officer nodded, turned back to the readouts on the screen. "We should be getting a scan of the ships in a few minutes, sir."

Harkov stepped back. "Notify me immediately when you do. I'll be over by communications."

He left the tactical crew pit, walked along the command walkway until he reached the comm station and com-scan consoles to the back of the bridge. Stormtroopers stood on guard at both sides of the turbolift and at various other stations around the security foyer that housed the communications consoles. Harkov ignored them. "Get the _Akaga_ for me, Lieutenant," he commanded.

The officer complied, nodding to Harkov in a moment to show the channel was clear. "_Akaga_, this is Harkov," he said. "Do you copy?"

Static. "This is Disroit of _Akaga_. We read you, Admiral."

"Listen carefully, Captain. The situation out here might seem strange to you but it'll soon look very familiar. The planet out there is Idare, one of the farthest planet out on the Sepan system. The transports out there are enemy freighters. I don't know what they're carrying, but we must assume they are enemy all the same. It might be Ripoblus, Dimok, or smugglers, but they're bound to be calling their backup forces once they find out that they are surrounded by Imperials. I suggest you go to yellow alert and have all fighters on standby. Whatever this group's loyalties, they will not be alone out here for very long."

"Copy that, Admiral. Yellow alert commencing."

"Standby for further orders, Captain." Harkov paused. "Oh, and I would recommend not trying to jump into hyperspace anytime soon. The Harpax is fully operational as of several minutes ago.

Silence, the Disroit's amused voice. "Yes, sir. _Akaga_ out."

Harkov put in successive calls to the _Thunder_, the _Commander_, and the Corvettes, then went over to combat, ordered all shields up forward and aft, and told the weapons officer to charge up the turbolasers full power. The intercom pinged; it was the tactical officer, calling him back over.

"I have a reading on those ships, Admiral," he reported, puzzled, as Harkov came down the walkway, scanned the terminal screen. "Tiwlok group? Eviplo-class 140 transport?"

The officer shrugged, pressed a control. Information scrolled down, sketchy reports on engines, weapons, and shields. "It's a bit incomplete, sir, but I've got those people down below working as fast as they can."

"That's fine." Harkov straightened. The name didn't ring any bells. Ripoblus? Dimok? "I want everything you've got as soon as possible."

There was a call from the comm station. Harkov hurried back over. "Admiral, I've intercepted a transmission from one of the transports."

Harkov lifted an eyebrow, adjusted his uniform. "And?"

"I actually don't know, sir," the lieutenant confessed. "Decrypt is still trying to make sense of it. It's not any code we've ever seen before. Certainly not Imperial."

Harkov nodded. "Put in a call to all ships in the fleet. Cut engine power, raise deflector shields immediately. All ships prepare for red alert, deploy fighter squadrons, but do not attack. Repeat, raise shields, deploy fighters, but _do not attack until ordered to do so_."

He nodded to the comm officer. The comm went off. Harkov walked to the shipwide intercom, prepared to speak-

-And with perfect timing, a modified Corellian Corvette flashed in out of hyperspace behind the freighters, squadrons of fighters pouring out of its hangar bay almost immediately. "Admiral!" came a strangled shout in the crew pit behind him.

"Go to red alert," Harkov said calmly. He clasped his hands behind his back, walked over to tactical. "Tell me what we've got."

The wailing of the red alert klaxons cut over the tap-tap-tap of the keys on the tactical consoles. "Modified Corvette _Desteri_," said someone. "It has markings...looks like some sort of flying yellow bird. Must be Ripoblus raiders." Harkov looked around, spotted the speaker; a youngish man with a shock of bright red hair under his standard crew helmet. Tap-tap-tap, went the keys, then the man suddenly straightened, leaned forward, frowned. "Admiral..."

Harkov hurried over. The officer was pointing to the screen, amazement and puzzlement mixed in his expression. "Admiral," he said again. "Those ships-they're Incom/Subpro Z-95 Headhunters. Mark II s."

Someone on the other side whistled. Harkov couldn't help but shake his head in wonder. Technology in this system must surely be incredibly outmoded; Mark II Headhunters were just about the earliest type of Headhunters ever built. They were almost obsolete in the Core systems; actually, to think about it, all Z-95s were almost obsolete in the Core systems. He shook his head again, straightened. Headhunters wouldn't be too hard to take out.

The comm station pinged. "We're receiving a transmission from the Corvette," said the lieutenant, frantically pressing his board controls. "It's not coded."

"Put them on." Harkov strode over to the man's side.

"Imperial craft," came a cold, whispery voice over the comm. The Basic was heavily accented, but understandable. "Imperial craft, this is Ripoblus Corvette _Desteri_. You are entering Ripoblus territory. These are Ripoblus freighters. Turn back immediately or you will be engaged."

"Corvette _Desteri_," responded Harkov, leaning over the comm, "we mean no aggression. We merely want to know what these five freighters are carrying and why they are out here."

"Turn off your gravity and perhaps they will go," suggested the voice, suddenly gaining a suspicious edge. "We would ask the same question of you, Imperial craft."

"Cocky, aren't they?" murmured the communications lieutenant. Harkov shot him a severe look, turned back to the comm.

"I assure you," he began. A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. Three more squadrons of Z-95 Headhunters flashed out of lightspeed on the starboard side of the _Protector_. Three squadrons in attack formation, followed by another modified Corvette and a...Mon Calamari cruiser?

A sharp hissing intake of breath from the comm told Harkov that the arrival of the others had been noticed by the Ripoblus as well. "You lie!" shouted the Ripoblus voice, suddenly furious. The whispery quality became harsh. "You have led us into a trap! You have intended to destroy us all!"

"Ripoblus craft-" Harkov took another look at the new Headhunters and capital ships. That were still taking up attack vectors, not towards the Imperial fighters...but were closing in on the Ripoblus craft. And then he understood.

He turned towards the comm once more. "Imperial frequency," he ordered. The lieutenant twisted controls, nodded. "All Imperial TIE fighters are hereby ordered to attack. Repeat, attack! Engage Ripoblus and Dimok craft, but I want those freighters intact!" Harkov spun around, hand searching for the intercom. Bright green and red flashes from the vacuum of outside told him two things: that the battle was already underway, and that things were not going very well for the Ripoblus. "General Daran to the bridge immediately. Daran to bridge. This is Harkov." He slapped off the comm with one hand, began heading up to the combat crew pit on the other side of the command walkway.

"Lieutenant," he added over his shoulder. "Get the _Akaga_ and _Thunder_ to withdraw a bit; I don't want them in the firefight. Send the _Fire_, the _Silver Lady_, and the _Commander_ to move in and take out the Dimok cruisers. Keep the _Galaxy_ for backup."

He exited the crew pit, positioned himself by the center window for a better view. Apparently the Ripoblus and Dimok hostilities had progressed farther than he thought. It probably wasn't even the Dimok's intent to start a battle; they had probably gotten caught in the _Harpax_'s gravity well out of sheer happenstance.

War was like that, he supposed. By being in the wrong place at the wrong time, people got caught up in things like this. He remembered Vader standing there on the holo transmission, an ominous, black, statue-like figure, telling Harkov just how important it was that he capture the Sepan system for the Empire. Remembered how glad he was to get his ships back from repair, escape from Endor, to see action. Any action.

Well, he was seeing it, all right, and likely to see much more before this conflict was settled. He should be thrilled, should be feeling that familiar tingle of battle adrenaline, should feel proud to be in command, to be serving the Empire on this mission. He knew he should at least be acting that way.

But he couldn't pretend forever.

"This is Gamma Leader," snapped a voice over the comm. "All wings report in."

"Gamma Two, standing by."

"Gamma Three, standing by."

"Gamma Four, standing by."

Tor increased his throttle, curving around behind Gamma Two, looking out his viewport at the glimmering of stars and laser blasts in the distance. "Gamma Five, standing by."

It looked like the firefight was getting worse. The five freighters were trying to edge quietly away, but the Dimok raiders weren't giving them much of a chance.

"Uh, oh," murmured Gamma Six, sharing his thoughts. "Those freighters out there...Admiral Harkov wants them intact..."

His transmission was cut off suddenly. There was a burst of static, resolving into a frantic jabbering voice. _"...peat, Ripoblus convoy requesting assistance. We are under attack!"_

A far cry, Tor thought, from the smug, self assured Ripoblus commander who had been arguing with the Admiral just a few moments before.

_"Attention, all Ripoblus and Dimok craft, this is Imperial Space."_ Harkov's voice, coming in strong and calm and commanding. Trust the Admiral to keep things under control. Imperial space? Yes, _now_ it was Imperial space._ "You are hereby ordered to stand down or face the consequences!"_

There was a buzz, then another heavily accented voice came over the comm, like pieces of sheet metal grinding together. It buzzed over the staticky comm in Tor's ear, making him wince at its harsh quality. _"Imperials, our Dimok forces are seizing illegal war supplies! We cannot permit the Ripoblus craft to escape!"_

_Sure_. Tor smiled tightly. _Liar. You just want their supplies so they won't have any_. The voice continued, more hurriedly, rising in volume. "Don't interfere, Imperials, or you will be fired upon!"

_"All Imperial fighters, this is the Admiral."_ An Imperial channel, Harkov again. _"All fighters, fire at will. I do not want to decimate either the Ripoblus or Dimok. There must be survivors to report back to their governments that the Empire is here. Repeat, attack, but merely drive them off."_

The comm clicked, and Tor heard Gamma Leader's voice in his ears. "All right, you heard him, boys. Let's not waste time."

He peeled off towards the directions of the battle. Tor followed, adjusting throttle and charging up lasers. It looked like it was going to be hot.

Harkov paced the _Protector_'s bridge, hands clasped tightly behind his back. Several Headhunters had broken away from the main group and were heading towards the fleet. He looked again, saw TIE Fighters in pursuit. 

"Shields full strength forward," he ordered. "Order the _Mercury _to the front, see if it can take out some of those Z-95s."

"And jam all enemy transmissions, if at all possible," General Daran added from the combat station behind him where he had been directing TIE manuevers.

"They're on a tight bandwidth, sir," came the reply from communications. "I'll see what I can do." 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the modified Corvette edge forward. The Z-95s drew nearer, started firing. And then-

"Admiral!" snapped the sensor officer.

"I see them, I see them!" responded Harkov. He dove towards the comm station. "_Akaga_ and _Mercury_, take up position behind us again. Apparently the Dimok had more reinforcements than I expected."

There was a short silence on the bridge as the corvette _Mercury_ retreated and the frigate _Akaga_ moved to flank the _Protector_ from the rear. Harkov looked at the four corvettes that had come out of hyperspace behind them, looked again...

Daran swore. "Those aren't Ripoblus or Dimok, Admiral. They're smugglers."

A startled glance from everyone on the bridge. "Sir?" the engineering officer asked cautiously.

"They're smugglers," Daran repeated. "Look- you can see they have no markings. My guess is that they were on a regular run-"

"-and ran into the Harpax's gravitational field," Harkov finished. He sighed, ran a hand through his hair." Always happens." He cast a glance back at the smuggler Corvettes. They were launching Y-wings. 

"Sir-" began General Daran.

"Yes," said Harkov. "Launch whatever we have left. Left Corflis maneuver. That should get those Y-wings temporarily off our back."

"All TIE Interceptors, launch," the general said into the comm. "Repeat, all TIE Interceptors launch. Initiate Left Corflis maneuver. Let's see what we can do with those Y-wings out there."

Tor jerked his stick hard to the right, then the left, then up. The Z-95 that was pursuing him tried to follow, shot over him. Two clean shots at its underbelly turned it into a spectacular fireball.

"Nice shootin', Five," commented Gamma Two.

"Watch out, Eight!" Tor snapped. "You've got a tail!"

"I see it." Gamma Eight's cool voice came over the transmitter as she spiraled to the left. The Headhunter followed with ease.

"Hold on, I'm on him!" Tor twisted portside, angling under the belly of the Z-95. His first shot sparked against one wing, the second took it off completely. The Headhunter spun out of control, exploded.

"Thank you, Gamma Five." Her distant tone didn't change, even when giving a compliment. Tor shook his head in wonder and resignation. 

"No problem."

"_Watch out, Gamma Squadron_," said a controller's voice from the Protector. "_A group of nine Z-95's are headed your way on five-two-six_."

"Acknowledged, Control," said Gamma Leader. "Gamma Squadron, form up tighter and keep an eye out for those new ships."

Tor looked down at his CMD, cycled through the target list. Nothing but Headhunters, more Headhunters...

The freighters! Where were they? He glanced at his sensor display, threw his fighter into a loose loop as green laser bolts temporarily lit up the space around him. The Threat Indicator Array above his target box lit up red. A starfighter was aiming for him, then.

Tor looped his fighter over, going back the way he had come. His shadowing Headhunter tried to follow, confused. Someone behind him blew it out of the sky.

"Five," came Gamma Leader's hard voice in his ear. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm going to go check out those freighters over there." He pulled his fighter to one side to avoid blasts from another Headhunter.

"Gamma Five-"

"I'll be all right. They're not that far away. And someone's got to do it. Those things don't look like they have the firepower to knock out a fly. Just keep those Z-95s busy."

"Copy that, Five." Calys' voice sounded resigned, though Tor expected he would get a good shouting-down later. "I'll cover you. The rest of you, Gamma squad, don't let any more of those Z-95's get near our capital ships. Keep an eye out-they can be tricky."

Tor pulled his fighter over onto his original course towards the freighters, which looked like they were trying to edge out of the Harpax's gravity field. And if he was any judge, they were almost there. The Dimok raiders had long quit harassing them, instead going for the Ripoblus Headhunters. And with all other attention focused on the battle behind him, no one would probably notice the freighters until it was too late. Tor adjusted his LES, rerouting all power to engines, urging his fighter on. Now he would see how well that inspection practice had rubbed off on him.

His CMD showed an increase in speed of the freighters. Uh, oh. They'd noticed him. Fortunately, it seemed that the Modified Corvette _Galaxy _had noticed him, too, as it was coming up behind him. Its ion cannons started firing, trying to disable the freighters before they could jump. Brilliant blue ion beams sizzled past him, towards the freighters, barely missing his solar panels. Tor brought his fighter up above the ion blasts. It would not do for his systems to be knocked out at this moment.

He targeted the nearest freighter. It started firing at him. With a shout of part surprise, part anger, Tor pulled to starboard. It looked like the freighters had at least some firepower. Tor dodged and wove, using every available tactic and strategy that he had been taught and some that he had just made up himself. He should be close enough now. Looking down at the CMD to identify cargo, he rapidly cycled through the targets. The first one held food, the second, food, the third, food...

...the fifth one held weapons.

Illegal? He didn't wait to find out. Tor jerked his stick hard over, heading back out of the freighters' range. "Corvette _Galaxy_," he said into the comm, switching over from his squadron's frequency to standard Imperial frequency. "This is T/F Gamma Five from the _Protector_. Freighter number five is carrying weapons."

"Acknowledged, Gamma Five. Freighter Five has already been disabled. We will send a transport out to capture it." Pause. "Thank you. _Galaxy_ out."

Tor grinned to himself, headed towards the battle zone once more. Gamma Leader followed behind. "No problem," he murmured to himself. "Just doing my duty."

Bix Harris brought his fighter up in a loop and double roll, twisting to the right. His two pursuers shot over him to the left. Gamma Six caught one, Bix looped back and got the other. 

"Hey, Seven, watch out!"

Bix saw Gamma Seven suddenly angle out to the left. Laser fire spat straight through the space where the fighter had been.

Another Headhunter veered in, wingtips spitting fire. Bix's sensors locked onto it. His hands moved over the controls, altering course after the Z-95. The other ship, noticing it was being followed, double looped around, trying to get back behind Bix. He waited. When the Headhunter was almost overhead, he tilted his fighter upwards, fired into the unprotected belly of the Headhunter, shattering it. So much for that. 

He targeted another Z-95, moved right onto an intercept course...and was suddenly thrown backwards by a roar and a strong shock wave from the rear. Seven Y-wings shot out from what had been empty space just moments before, bearing distinct Dimok markings.

__

"Hey," Gamma Three said. "We got company."

"All right, kids," said Gamma Leader. "This is where it gets suicidal. Watch your backs and good luck."

"Fourteen Y-wings, sir, and another Corvette," reported the sensor officer, "coming in point-oh-six."

"Right," Harkov said grimly. Things were not looking good. The _Akaga_ and the _Mercury_ had managed to take out two of the four smuggler's corvettes, but both of them, the _Mercury _in particular, were losing shields rapidly as Y-wings swarmed over them. Interceptors could only do so much against the shielded craft. The _Protector_'s shields were down to 47 percent. And the other Corvettes and _Thunder _were occupied with the Dimok and Ripoblus Corvettes. There must be some way...

"What vector did those Corvettes come in from?" He demanded. General Daran looked at him, puzzled.

The com-scan officer nearest him busied himself at the console a moment. "Ten-five-two, sir."

Daran came over. "Why do you want to know, Admiral?"

Harkov smiled tightly to himself. "I have a plan."

"Craer, look out!"

Bix saw Gamma Two, to his right, do a desperate downwards spiral to elude pursuit. His pursuer fired rapidly, hitting him one on the solar panel. Bix turned and headed for the Z-95, but it was too late. Another shot sent Craer's solar panels sparking blue.

"I'm hit! I'm-!" The TIE exploded in a ball of fiery gases and shrapnel. 

Bix swallowed. Craer Hadin had been an old friend. Angrily, he jerked his stick right, down, right. The Z-95 that had been coming at him from the rear appeared in his front sensor, tried to angle left. Bix lined it up with his computer. The HUD flickered green. He fired, scored, fired again. A few more shots...

_"Imperial TIE Fighters, this is General Daran."_

The voice broke Bix's concentration. He lost the lock; the Z-95 slipped behind him again. _Blast!_

_"Retreat. Repeat, all TIE Fighters retreat."_

What?

"What?" said Edar S'rati, banking to starboard to evade a pursuer.

"Did you hear what I heard?" demanded D'lan Ril.

"I hear it," Calys said grimly. "Let's go, boys. It seems like High Command isn't willing to let us stay with the party. There'll be plenty more scraps for you later."

Bix slumped in frustration. They hadn't been losing, had they? Sure, they'd lost Nine, but Headhunters weren't invincible. What was Harkov thinking?

A laser blast sizzled past him. He yelped, pulled to the right. _Concentrate, Bix Harris, or you won't even live to tell about this retreat._

"Ah, sir," hazarded the engineering officer. "Shouldn't we be activating the tractor beam?"

"Yes," said Daran behind him. "Our fighters are close; they should reach the _Protector_ any minute now."

"No," said Harkov. "We wait. Just pretend the tractor beam's broken. Shouldn't be too hard." That brought strained laughter around the bridge. "Right, now increase engine power."

"Sir-"

"Just do it, Lieutenant!" Harkov bellowed, startling both himself and the lieutenant.

"Yes, sir!" the lieutenant bent to his console, fingers flying.

"And hurry! We haven't got time for any calculations. Just go!" 

"The _Mercury_'s shields are down to 10 percent, sir."

"Order the _Mercury_ to pull out and the _Elite_ to replace it," said Harkov. "Are we moving yet?"

The _Protector _lurched, started gaining speed. The engineering officer looked up at Harkov. "Sir, our fighters are past the hangar bay. I-"

Harkov looked out the last transparisteel window on the port side of the bridge, saw the attacking smuggler Y-wings break off their concentrated formation around the Akaga, sweep down below the _Protector_-

And engage the Ripoblus and Dimok Headhunters.

"Admiral?"

Harkov smiled. "It's actually quite simple. The vector that the smugglers came in on, vector ten-five-two, which, if you trace it back, leads directly to a Ripoblus held world, Eslair. I surmised they must be either smuggling to or from the Ripoblus, which means that at least one of out two friendly groups out there aren't going to be pleased when they find out. I just let them find out a bit earlier. It looks like both Ripoblus and Dimok have a reason to be hostile to this particular smuggling group."

"So...why didn't they hit the smugglers earlier?" wondered someone from the starboard side crew pit.

"They probably wanted to finish picking us off before they started on them," said Harkov. "Most non-Imperials dislike the Empire even more than they do smugglers. But now that the quarry's come to them..." He trailed off significantly, nodded at Daran, who spoke into the comm.

"Imperial fighters, this is Daran. Just kidding; we are not retreating after all."

The chuckles around the bridge were less forced this time.


	7. Six: On Loyalty

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This is a work of fan fiction and all canon characters, scenes, and concept are the property of LucasArts. Original characters and plot property of Gerald Tarrant.

Please do not repost this fanfiction without permission.  
lordofmerentha@yahoo.com 

* * *

****

Six: On Loyalty

"Wedge!"

Grunting, Wedge Antilles looked up from his work, glancing about the south hangar bay. He pushed heavy dark brown curls back from his damp forehead, sweating despite the near freezing temperatures in the bay. As in all the other rooms of the Echo Base complex, the high walls were made of ice and packed snow set down millions of years ago by the natural cycle of elements on Hoth. The ice stalactites and other formations in the cave had been cleared away by giant excavating machines, and the cave itself had been enlarged, but all in all, the cavern still looked the same as it had before habitation; high, echoing, frigid. A fallen slab of ice from the ice cliffs above concealed the opening of the bay from unwelcome eyes, and, if one did not look too closely, the base itself would seem nonexistent, just one of the many frozen mountain caverns dotting Hoth's desolate landscape.

Wedge didn't like that idea very much, shrugged, dropped the welder he was carrying. A half-modified airspeeder lay on the ground before him, internal components strewn over the floor of the cavern. Wedge stretched, shook his head, trying to rid himself of his persistent week-old headache. His ears rang with the deafening sounds of metal on metal, the hiss of power welders, and the whine of engines and repulsorlifts as they were activated and tested. Above the racket rose the hum of voices, everyone in the hangar bay shouting loud enough to be heard over the noise. The louder they shouted, the louder the noise grew, which lead to them shouting even louder. Which, Wedge thought sourly, did not do a thing towards relieving his headache. Looking around, he saw on the others' faces the same fatigue that he felt. Two weeks...five minute naps whenever he had a spare moment...days without rest...Too-Onebee would have a fit...

"Wedge!"

The sound came, closer now. He turned, drew in a sharp breath as the motion twisted the overused muscles in his back. If it was General Carlist Rieekan, base commander, calling him, he'd just pretend he didn't notice. Rieekan treated him just like he was omnipresent or omnipotent or something; telling him to supervise this, deliver that, take notes on this, check that out. The man acted like he was the absolute authority, stalking around the base, wanting to keep a full all-hours alert, working people to death. And Wedge was entirely not willing to go on as Rieekan's slave driver. Or slave, however one chose to look at it.

"Hey, Wedge Antilles!"

There was definitely someone calling him. Wedge rubbed bleary eyes with a grimy, oiled fist, trying to make himself stay awake just a little longer, then saw Luke Skywalker-_Commander_ Skywalker- picking his way across the sea of metal droids, scraps, and people with visible annoyance. Well, if it was Luke, Wedge didn't mind. The kid was really something. Good pilot, fun to work with. Just as long as he wasn't carrying orders from Rieekan for Wedge to go off on some other crazy venture.

Luke jumped over one last pile of twisted metal plates, came over by Wedge. "Hey, Wedge! General Rieekan wants you to-"

Wedge groaned, threw his hands in the air. "I knew it! I just knew it! I've had enough of him. Go away! Tell him you couldn't find me."

"-take a break," Luke finished with a wide grin. "But if you want to keep on working, I don't think he would mind."

"Oh, just shut up," Wedge snarled, threw a mock punch at Luke, who stepped back, examining him with a concerned expression.

"Gee, Wedge, you look terrible. "Haven't you slept at all these couple of days?"

"On and off." Wedge took a step backwards, tripped on the welder, stumbled, recovered his balance unsteadily. "The last real nap I had was three days ago. Or something like that." He rubbed his temples, willing his headache to go and haunt someone else for a change.

Luke shook his head, surveyed Wedge's work with hands on his hips. "I'll admit it, you're doing a pretty good job, though, on these speeders."

"Thanks." Wedge rubbed his hands on the dirty gray coveralls he had on over his thermal suit. "I used to be a mechanic, did some fancy patch-up jobs here and there. But man, I wish I had know what I was getting into when I volunteered for this. Do you know how impossible it is to convert these airspeeders to snowspeeders? Or whatever they call them now." 

Luke raised his eyebrows. "Kind of, yes. That's why I didn't volunteer for this. I'm a pretty fair mechanic myself, but I didn't want someone getting all over my case if I accidentally fixed the repulsorlift generators in the wrong place."

"Very funny. And that someone being General Rieekan?"

"I suppose." Luke threw an amused look at Wedge. "Besides the fact that I'm, you know, _above_ all this now that I'm a commander-"

Wedge waved a negligent hand, snorted. "Go on, brag all you want. I'll be above _you _before you know it."

"Come on." Luke shifted to one foot, then the other. "You gonna take a rest or not?"

Rest. The word sounded heavenly to Wedge. "Sure," he said, trying to sound nonchalant about it. "Where? Not Rieekan's office, I hope."

Luke sighed, began carefully to pick his way back across the hangar bay, Wedge following. "Rieekan's really not that bad, Wedge," he said, words floating back to Wedge as if coming from a distance. "Is he?"

They made it across the bay without major incident and wandered slowly down the dim ice hallway. "No, he isn't," Wedge conceded, fingers reaching out to brush the icy walls, eyes discerning the power cables fixed to the top of the packed snow. "I just wish he could get someone else to run all these errands for him."

"But there is no one else," Luke said, words coming heavy and muffled in the chill air.

"No," murmured Wedge. That was the problem. The Alliance wasn't growing any bigger; if anything, it was shrinking. With the casualties of the past year combined with the Battle of Yavin, the number of Rebels was slowly decreasing. Which meant that people could be called on to perform duties outside of their regular assignments. As he was doing now: X-wing pilot turned temporary mechanic. Or perhaps permanent, if the Rebellion's losses continued to outweigh its gains. "Rieekan-I really don't know. He takes everything too seriously, wants everything in top shape, wants us to be able to evacuate split second. I hate to say it, but he's paranoid."

Luke's breath puffed out in clouds of white in the near-freezing temperature of the tunnel. "You know why he is though, don't you?"

"No." Wedge felt surprise. There was a reason? People were either naturally paranoid or they weren't. "Why?"

Luke slowed, looked back as if to make sure there was no one following them, lowered his voice. The corridor was deserted. "You don't? Major Monnon made sure all his engineers knew. That's why you never see any of them complaining about him. It's not a very nice story." Luke swallowed. "Rieekan was from Alderaan, like Leia was. _Princess_ Leia," he corrected himself.

Wedge grinned. It was no use for the kid to pretend; the whole base knew about him and the Princess by now. Or at least had heard the rumors. "Yeah. And?"

"He was a Rebel agent/spy kind of thing around that system. Seems that the day the Death Star arrived at Alderaan he was out inspecting satellite transmitter around Delaya, Alderaan's neighboring world, and spotted it coming. He had heard the reports, of course, and knew what the Death Star could do. So he wanted to order an evacuation."

"So...why didn't he?"

"Well, for one thing, Alderaan's always maintained neutrality on the surface. So if people started evacuating all of a sudden, the Empire would at least suspect that there had been a security breach somewhere; that someone had blown their cover and was therefore working for the Alliance. Which wouldn't have been good for the Alderaanian people, either. So Rieekan decided to take his chances, hoping that maybe Tarkin wouldn't do anything, just sit there for a while and then leave."

Wedge shook his head. "Tarkin wasn't that kind of person. He wouldn't ever sit and do nothing. He liked demonstrations of power."

"That was Tarkin," Luke agreed, turned a corner into a new, downward sloping, twisting hallway lined with low doorways at regular intervals. "But Rieekan wasn't sure. So he was still debating with himself when...well, you know what happened."

Wedge nodded slowly. "I see. So he blames himself?"

"Yeah. So that's why he works everyone so hard, why he's so insistent about being prepared and defended. He's afraid that someday the Empire might find us here on Hoth unprepared for invasion, and then it would be his fault, the death of thousands of others to add to his conscience."

"He shouldn't be so hard on himself. Tarkin was nuts anyway."

Luke shrugged. "I don't know. But I know if I were him, I'd feel pretty terrible, too."

He stopped in front of a numbered doorway, the flat metal entrance looking like all the other in the corridor, pressed his fingers into the automatic fingerprint recognition lock. The lock clicked and the door open. Wedge followed him into what looked like standard personnel quarters, or as standard as things got on Hoth, except it was 10 odd degrees colder than regular living temperatures.

Like all other living areas in Echo Base, the walls of Luke's room were lined with thin sheets of insulating plastic to keep in what warmth there was. Two bunk beds were built into a wall module to the right of the door; the bottom one looked slept in and rumpled. The top bunk was bare of covering; thermal sheets stacked in a neat pile above the mattress. Above and beside the door were various blinking screens: temperature control, intercom. A table folded out from the wall beside the beds and there was a built in chair by the door. The room was small, as space was limited in the caverns. The ceiling was left bare, power conduits running along the ice. An R2-D2 unit trundled out from behind some boxes and whistled a greeting.

"Hi, Artoo," said Luke, turning to check on the temperature control panel. Artoo whistled again, a long string of remarks apparently directed at Wedge.

"He's just tired, I guess," said Luke with a grin. "Hey, Wedge, why don't you just take the bottom bunk? I'm not gonna sleep for a while anyway."

Wedge flopped down on the bottom bunk, pulling the covers partly over himself. Luke eased into the chair next to the door. The door slid shut. With the added warmth of the sheets and the higher room temperature, Wedge felt more relaxed than he had in two weeks.

"So you know, now." Luke finished, turning and fishing in a drawer that opened up underneath the table. "General Rieekan doesn't want to overwork people or anything, it's just that he's afraid of anything like that happening again. Ah, ha." He pulled out a small, portable entertainment module, set it on the table. A weird, strangely soothing melody drifted from the speakers.

Wedge yawned, frowned at sound of the music. "I don't even want to know where you came up with that. " He lay back, stared at the bed's ceiling, then looked over at Luke. "Though I guess having no roommate you can listen to anything you want."

The expression on Luke's face changed, something unreadable and closed. "Yes," he said flatly. He turned away, reached behind the entertainment module, picked up a cylindrical metal object and started running his fingers over its surface in an idle motion.

"What's that?" Wedge squinted at the object. It didn't look familiar.

"This?" Luke held it up. In the light the metal surface shimmered. "It's my lightsaber."

"Huh?" Wedge sat up halfway. He could see now that it wasn't all smooth; there was a grooved surface near the bottom and a kind of thumb switch set near the middle of the cylinder. "A what?"

"My lightsaber," Luke repeated. "It's a weapon. It was my father's." He paused, added with a touch of sadness. "It was given to me by...a friend."

He touched the switch, a barely perceptible twitch of the finger. A brilliant beam of blue-white crackling energy sprang from the end, about as thick around as two of Wedge's thumbs put together. The hum it emitted was quite loud in the frozen cavern. Artoo rolled closer, clearly fascinated by the weapon, beeping to himself.

Luke waved it back and forth a few times, then shut if off. Wedge blinked, the blue afterimage of it still pounding numbingly against his eyes. "That's neat," he mumbled, feeling suddenly lightheaded. He yawned.

Grinning at his expression, Luke pressed a control on one of the wall panels. A small compartment slid out from the wall next to the chair, just long enough and wide enough to fit the handle. Luke placed the lightsaber inside, closed it, stood.

"Have a nice sleep," Wedge heard Luke say faintly. The bed smelled of clean, crisp coldness and warmth at the same time. He closed his eyes, fell into oblivion.

Luke Skywalker stepped out of his quarters followed by Artoo. Letting the door close behind him, he leaned against the icy wall just outside. He smiled at the image of Wedge fast asleep in his bed, snoring for all he was worth. In spite of all he had just told Wedge, there were times when he felt that Rieekan did work everyone too hard. Times like this. Three days, Wedge had said. He hadn't slept at all in three days. Man, no wonder he had dropped off just like that.

Well, that was one of the reasons Luke had taken Wedge to his room and not the other's room; so that Wedge could get some decent rest without anyone bothering him. Luke's room was private, out of the way, and no one would know Wedge was there. And there was another reason, too. Luke didn't mind having a room to himself, as he had told Wedge, but with Wedge there in the bottom bunk, the room would feel less empty than it had with only one occupant. His room...the room he was supposed to share with Han...

Han, who was on another of those accursed smuggler missions...

Artoo whistled with concern, and Luke pushed himself away from the wall. Technically, he was off duty right now, but suddenly he felt lonely and restless. Maybe Leia could find something for him to do.

Yes, that was it. He'd go see Leia. That should keep him busy, keep him from having to think too much about things that didn't concern him. After all, Han had never said he was going to stay with the Alliance. Even though he had shot those TIEs off Luke's back and had done some good smuggling for the Rebellion, that was no guarantee of anything. Maybe Han was just one of those people, coming and going as he pleased, with no feelings for anyone...

_Stop it!_ Luke headed purposefully down the corridor to the main control center of Echo Base. _Don't think about Han. You can't do anything about it by worrying. _

"So where's Threepio, huh?" He addressed the little droid.

Artoo delivered a series of flat remarks that sounded less than complimentary, punctuating them with a loud blatting noise.

"I see. Not spending enough time with you, is he? I know how you feel, Artoo. I wish Han'd spend more time with us too."

Artoo whistled mournfully and rolled along in silence.

Luke turned into a wider ice corridor, this one filled with more traffic: technicians, lesser functionaries, personnel, all intent on their own personal mission, faces buried in the thick layers of their standard issue thermal suits. Luke forced his mind away from his own concerns; tried to think about other things. He remembered the expression on Wedge's face when he had shown him his lightsaber. It was the weapon of a Jedi, right? So Ben had said. Swinging it back and forth was one thing, but he had to learn and use it, if he was ever going to become a Jedi, like Ben had been.

_A Jedi? Are you crazy, Luke? You're going way to far ahead of yourself here. How are you ever going to find someone to teach you, much less find the time? And you don't even know if you have what it takes. Big dreams for a farmboy._

If only Ben were here...

He stopped at the thick blast door of the main hub of the workings of the Rebel Alliance, the nerve center of all its operations: the Echo Base command center. Whipping out his ID card, he moved to the computer terminal, ran it through the scanner. The doors hissed open, and he was in.

Inside was a whole different world. There was still lingering presence of the ubiquitous cold, but it looked like most of the people inside, hunched over radar consoles and communications equipment, were working too hard to notice. Daylight streamed in from cracks in the ice and powerpacks lined the solid ice walls, providing power for the myriad consoles and portable equipment in the command center.

Luke walked in slowly, filtering the high-tech conversations through his hearing, listening for that familiar voice. Ah, yes, over to his left, there.

He turned, saw Leia leaning over an engineering console. The upright tactical com-scan display showed what looked like a scan of the perimeter around the shield generator. Leia was deep in conversation with the man seated at the console, and Luke hated to distract her, so he stopped a distance away and waited. He spotted Threepio a distance away at another console, reciting coordinates in a controlled, prissy voice. Artoo bleeped in indignation at the sight of the golden droid and trundled off to probably give the protocol droid an angry part of his emotional programming .

A breath of air next to him alerted Luke to the presence of another. He whirled, then relaxed as he saw General Carlist Rieekan standing there, a severe expression on his face, as always. The general nodded. "Commander Skywalker."

Luke snapped to attention, saluted. "General."

Rieekan smiled, a rare occurrence, smoothing some of the harsh lines of his face, seemed to relax slightly. "I trust you reported my message to Lieutenant Antilles?"

"I did, sir. He's now...well, I'll just say he's oblivious to any activity."

Rieekan sighed. "He deserves his rest. Antilles is a hard worker, and a good mechanic. He does wonders with those airspeeders-or, should I say, _snowspeeders_."

"He did tell me he used to be a mechanic, sir."

Rieekan nodded absently. "So...tell me, Commander, how is the work going on those new speeders?"

"We're still having problems adapting them to the cold. Most of the original airspeeder engine parts just aren't compatible with the weather out there, especially the cooling tubes, and we're having a hard time trying to replace them. But we're working on it. Right now, sir, I'd say that tauntauns are proving to be better modes of transportation."

Nodding again, the general looked at Luke. "I've a feeling we're going to be here for a while longer. It might just as well be worth the effort we're putting into those things." He paused, smiling sardonically. "It had better be." He turned his head to glance at the stations on the other side of the room, snapped a command at a controller who hurridly turned some switches off and waved to Rieekan to come over. He acknowledged with a wave and a scowl, then looked back at Luke.

"Tell Antilles I'm proud of him and to keep up the work." 

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Rieekan turned, moved off to the left, barking orders to a pair of aides. Luke stared at his retreating back, feeling conflicting emotions come over him. It was hard to dislike Rieekan at times like this, but then again, it required unlimited patience and understanding to put up with him in other circumstances.

He was still staring into space, lost in his own thoughts, when he gradually became aware of a soft tapping on his shoulder. He turned slightly, saw a pair of familiar determined blue eyes staring up at him. 

"Leia!"

She smiled back. "What are you doing here? I'd though you would be with the others playing 'tame the tauntaun.'"

He grimaced. "I did that yesterday. Took four showers to get half the smell off me."

Leia laughed lightly, but Luke noticed a pensive look in her eyes. "Well, sorry we can't do anything about the smell. Unless you want to replace the animal's sweat glands where it comes from."

"I don't care where it comes from. I'll only ride those lizards because I have to. I prefer odorless, mechanical transport."

"Speaking of mechanical..."

"Wedge is dead to the world."

"Ah." She glanced over as an aide hurried up, handing her a datacard, which she slipped into her pocket. "So why _are_ you here? Need work?"

"Well, yeah, kind of."

"Kind of, huh?" She looked into his eyes intently. He blushed. She chuckled. "There's lots of work that needs to be done, but it's only the official type. You know, signing of documents and things. Mon Mothma and Admiral Ackbar are away on Fleet inspection, so there isn't anything you can do about it." 

"Just give me work. Any work! Shoveling snow, even."

The semi-worried look was back, but it wasn't directed at him. "You're _that _bored?"

No, just depressed, he wanted to say. Depressed and worried. Instead, he gave her a strained smile. "I guess so."

"No, you don't guess so," she said, coming around to face him fully. She lowered her voice and Luke had to strain his ears to hear her below the din. There had been a meteorite shower in Sector 23; he could hear Rieekan from across the room. Leia tilted her head up. "I know you better than that. What's wrong?"

He should have known. You couldn't pretend with Leia. Between her diplomatic mind and odd sixth sense of others' feelings, she would find out sooner or later. "It's Han," he said resignedly, feeling oddly relieved to be telling someone else.

He face tightened at the name and she looked down at the ground. Luke stared at the top of her bent head, wishing he could read her expressions as readily as she could read his. In the two or so years that they'd all known each other, he still felt like he'd never really gotten to _know_ Han, like he now knew Leia. Had never shared some of those moments with him as he had with her, feeling like only the two of them existed in the whole universe, pouring out thoughts and feelings to her that he hadn't even known he had. Granted, he still couldn't read her expression, but their relationship was more profound and deep than any other he had had before.

Of course, Han would probably feel uncomfortable even talking about trivial personal matters. Han was just that kind of person. But still, it would be nice to have him around for more than a day or two at a time between months of absence. Smuggling for the Rebellion, he had said. But there was a price on his head to consider. And then maybe he just wasn't coming back...

Luke shook his head, then looked down at Leia again. She was biting her lip. Whatever she felt for Han, he had no idea, but he knew how he felt about her. If Han did come back, he might take Leia away from Luke, and that wouldn't be good, either...

_Shut up!_ He told himself furiously, pushing the wave of jealousy away. Leia's preferences weren't for either himself _or_ Han to decide. So what if he was a farm boy? Han was a smuggler, and that was worse. If anything, what Leia really needed was to find someone of her rank, a man with high, even royal connections, fit for a princess like her to marry. It wouldn't do her any good to hang around people like them; she deserved better.

The thought of that made Luke's spirits plunge even lower.

Leia stirred, looked up at him again, her expression one of tiredness and resignation. "Well, at least I know someone else has been thinking the same thing as me."

Luke gaped at her.

She smiled, a temporary illusory smile at his expression. "Do you think you're the only one who's been worrying about Han?"

"Not worrying," Luke protested, trying to salvage what remained of his composure. "Just-"

"Worrying," she finished for him. 'I think about him almost every minute of the day. Lie awake at night wondering if anything had happened to him. Sometimes I get angry at him for not even contacting us once or twice, and then I think of all the dangers he might be in." She shook her head. "I can't seem to get him out of my mind. And-" she looked up into his eyes again, "-neither can you, it seems."

Luke met her gaze, troubled thoughts running through his head. _I think about him almost every minute of the day_...was she thinking about Han now, while ferreting out his thoughts from his head? _No, Luke! Han is her friend, just like he is your friend. Jealousy won't help you any. Besides, she loves _you_._

_You sure about that, farmboy?_

With an effort he wrenched his mind back on topic. "Sometimes I wonder if he's forgotten us," he confessed. 'He was a smuggler for years, him and Chewie. Old habits die hard."

Leia stared at him, doubt and fear in her eyes. Her lips compressed. "No," she said. "I won't believe he's forgotten us. He _can't_. He's going to come back."

"Are you sure about that? Really sure?"

She had been turning away, reaching into her pocket for the datacard that the aide had given her. Slowly, she came back to face him. "No." Her eyes dropped and when she spoke, it was barely above a choked whisper. "I'm not."

Harkov had retired for the "night," exhausted after the Ripoblus/Dimok/smuggler encounter that General Daran had jokingly dubbed "The Battle of Freighter." That was all very well, since the stolen goods had been appropriated and accordingly stored away, but it had also shed some new light on the severity of things in this civil war. If the Ripoblus-or the Dimok-were smuggling from the Empire...

Well. That was not his problem, was it? Leave the worrying over that to Vader or some other high-ranking official. He would contact Coruscant tomorrow, let them deal with it. He was a soldier, and his business was to fight. Nothing more. Fight for the Empire.

The Empire...

With a grunt he heaved himself out of the hard chair he had been sitting in next to his bed and went into the next room. He splashed a bit of water on his face, too tired to take a shower-there would probably be no water anyway; almost everyone aboard would be bound to take a shower-combed his hair, took a 'fresher break, and then proceeded to change out of his uniform into looser, more comfortable civilian night clothes.

Leaving the inner room, he turned off its single light, and went over to his bed. It was a narrow bed with a hard mattress, but then, what could one expect on a starship? He turned down the covers, then crossed the room to shut off the wall computer where he'd been reading the updated battle reports pouring in from all commanders. The only thing he didn't have was the casualty report, and he wasn't particularly anxious to read it, anyway. TIE Fighters should have shielding, he thought to himself, as he had a thousand times before. Any kind of shielding. Yes, sheer numbers of TIEs could overwhelm any fighter, but Harkov was not the kind of man to throw away the lives of young and gifted pilots. He never had been.

Sighing deeply, he turned off the light next to the computer as well, leaving only his bedside light on. Now was not the time to think of these things. He was too tired. He climbed into bed, the stiff mattress feeling incredibly soft to his tight muscles. Reaching over, he turned on his entertainment system, the only luxury he allowed himself aboard the _Protector_.

"What is your preference tonight, Admiral?" the machine said pleasantly.

Harkov scowled. He should remember to exchange the voxchip on it; besides its annoying Corellian accent, that voice was just too pleasant for his moods of late. "I don't know," he said tiredly. "Just play something soft and soothing. Relaxing."

There was a click and a whir, and the machine said: "Would the piece _Tr'ial'tan 'or' 'Ist'y'l_ composed by V'lag'er 'A suffice?"

The name of the piece as the machine pronounced it gave Harkov a headache, but he hoped the piece itself was more relaxing. "I suppose," he grumbled. "Skip the history; just play the music."

"Of course, Admiral," the machine said. Was it just his imagination, or did the machine's Corellian accent become more pronounced? The voxchip clicked off and music came on. It was soothing, full of bell-like sounding instruments. Harkov dimmed the light, lay back and was drifting off to sleep, when the noise of the door buzzer reached his ears. At first he thought it was only part of a dream, but as the insistent ringing continued, some small last part of his mind came awake. He cursed under his breath, rolled out of bed, and padded across the floor in his bare feet. Fumbling, he managed to press the door open control. The door slid open and the light from the corridor outside nearly blinded him.

He blinked a few times, then looked up and saw General Daran standing in the doorway, apparently as surprised as Harkov was. Daran looked uneasy, but then, he was always uneasy, except in battle.

"Admiral," he began apologetically. "If I'm disturbing you ..."

"No," Harkov sighed. "It's all right." He reached for the room's light control switch, motioning Daran to step inside. The door shut behind him.

Daran was nervously fingering a datacard, which he suddenly handed to Harkov as if he had forgotten that he had been holding it in the first place. "Casualties, sir," he said. "I just finished it; didn't realize you were asleep. Most personnel are still working. I was going to give this to your aide, but I couldn't find him."

"I fired him," Harkov said sourly. "He was a nuisance anyway." He rubbed his eyes, turned the datacard over and over.

"Oh," said Daran, taken aback. He swallowed, brushed some imaginary lint off the right shoulder of his immaculate olive-green uniform. "Well, sir, if you want me to take the card back-"

"I'm fine," Harkov said absently. Duty called, but he was too tired to read and update files at this hour. He looked narrowly at Daran, frowning at the general's expression. "If that is all, General..."

He looked at Daran who was nervously edging towards the door but looking at Harkov with a strange expression, as if he were pleading with Harkov to save him from some unknown fate.

Abruptly Daran stopped his sidling, snapped to military attention. "Admiral," he said, then lowered his voice, stepped close. "Are the surveillance systems in this room turned off?"

"Yes," said Harkov, suddenly wary. What in the worlds was going on? "I do not hold with installment of surveillance equipment in private quarters. You know that. Why?"

"Sir," said Daran in the same quiet voice. "I must tell you, sir, that..." he swallowed, then continued on with an almost terrified expression. The words came out in a rush. "-That I do not work for the Empire."

"That what?" Harkov said, now thoroughly confused. "What are you talking about, Daran?" Daran was watching him with a quiet look, nervousness gone now except for a few lines around his eyes, as if he were hoping, pleading, with Harkov to understand. Harkov shook his head in confusion. What was the man up to? Of course Daran worked for the Empire. Who else would he work for? Smugglers? 

He was about to make a clever retort, tell Daran that both of them needed sleep, when suddenly his vision seemed to explode. The floor spun. Unless he was-

"-a member of the Rebel Alliance," Daran said grimly.

Harkov's legs gave under him and he stumbled backward, fell into a chair behind him. His arms would not move. He shook his head wordlessly, in stupified shock. This couldn't be. No. 

"Admiral!" Daran took a step forward. Harkov waved him back.

"Are you aware, General," said Harkov softly, keeping his eyes trained on Daran, "that I could have you arrested and convicted of treason?"

"Yes," returned the general, with confidence now. The worst was past. "But you could hardly convict me without convicting yourself as well."

"General!" Harkov pushed himself upright, stood, angry now, his voice as frozen cold as an arctic wind. This was impossible. He had to be dreaming.

"I am speaking the truth, aren't I?" retorted Daran, with the same legendary calm that served him so well in battle. Harkov felt cold, suddenly. What did Daran know? "One Rebel wouldn't arrest a fellow Rebel."

"We are treading on dangerous ground here, General," Harkov grated. The coldness dissolved into seething heat. How dare Daran address him in this manner? "Some things I would rather not discuss. The Rebellion is one of them."

"You deny your ties to the Alliance!"

"I deny nothing!" In two quick strides, Harkov lunged for Daran, grasping the other's shoulders with both hands and pulling the general close in a deathlike grip. He spoke softly, with a deadly intent. "We are on an Imperial starship, General, in a Imperial fleet, surrounded by Imperial personnel. One wrong step can mean death. For you or I. I prefer to die fighting than to be butchered like an animal."

Daran had fallen silent, eyes wide, throat working to swallow. He nodded, a barely perceptible dip of the chin.

"As for the Rebellion..." Harkov trailed off. "I cannot do anything about that now. The war is far away from here. I can give no help to anyone from Sepan."

"Yes sir." There was new respect in Daran's eyes.

"Betrayal in the Empire is something to be kept secret, General." Harkov stepped back, released Daran, who winced. "I am not sure I am willing to trust your words just yet. My feelings towards the Alliance now do not concern you. The Empire does not take defection lightly."

Daran headed towards the door, stopped. "I wouldn't call it exactly defection, sir," he said quietly. "More like...release."

The door hissed shut behind him. Harkov stood there, still holding the datacard, mind blank.

__

More like release.

Could he trust this man? Was he telling the truth? Not that he had any real choice in the matter; Daran already knew about him and the Alliance. Did that mean he knew about his visit to Hoth as well? About his messages to Mon Mothma? _Why tell me here? Why now?_ _What does he know? What does he want?_

Defection. From all accounts he was already a traitor to the Empire. Or perhaps, not a traitor, but only a fugitive. _More like release._ Yes, it could be called that...from a certain twisted point of view.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Harkov noticed that the music was still playing.


	8. Seven: Fading Memories

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This is a work of fan fiction and all canon characters, scenes, and concept are the property of LucasArts. Original characters and plot property of Gerald Tarrant.

Please do not repost this fanfiction without permission.  
lordofmerentha@yahoo.com 

* * *

****

Seven: Fading Memories

Daral awoke with a start. The room was dark and empty. Blinking, disoriented, he made out two other cots across the small room, the covers rumpled and pulled back. He partially jumped up, feeling a momentary attack of panic. This wasn't his room at the Imperial Academy.

Imperial...

Then the weight of all that had happened crashed down on him, leaving him stunned once more, his mind a blank slate of grief and anger. Pushing back the covers, he swung his legs over the side of the cot and tried to maintain a semblance at least of calm, if not his comfortable cocky attitude. Keth...his family...the Empire...

_Oh, man. What have they done? What's going to happen to me?_

He clenched his hands into fists and bit down hard on his lip. He would not cry. He was not a child. 

Anger burned through him, furious, violent anger. What right had the Empire to do this to his family or even to him? He was Daral Krellis, one of the brightest stars of the Imperial Academy, daring stunt pilot, popular, talented, wealthy, famous. They couldn't just take all this from him overnight. They couldn't! It was his, had always been his.

But they had. One day. Now he had nothing, no name, no family, no future. All because of the Empire. 

Hot tears welled up in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks despite his best efforts. His fury dissolved into cold despair and he slumped down on the hard bed, wiping away the tears. How could he have ever dreamed of serving in the Imperial Navy? To think that to do so would be the adventure of a lifetime? He had been a fool, thinking that it would be an honor to serve the Emperor. The Emperor...who had ruined his life.

_Yeah, Daral. Some hero you are. Thinking that you were untouchable, that you were God or something. Now look at you._

Where did I go wrong?

He felt the gnawing of something deep and dark inside of him, felt himself slipping down into it. He felt so alone, so useless. What could he do? Nothing he had or ever had could bring his family or anything else back. Nothing. Not his name, not his money, not his one-time connections on Imperial Center.

There had never been a time when money couldn't do anything for him. The Krellis fortune had been his security in times when everyone else had nothing to lean on. But here he was, without money, weapons, anything, bound who knew where on a civilian freighter with two strangers who, for all Daral knew, had orders to kill him. And for the first time in his life, Daral Krellis couldn't do a single thing to stop this event from happening.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

He'd never been close to Keth. There had always had that gap between them though they were born of the same blood. Keth had always been the perfect gentleman, a ladies' man, a shrewd diplomat. Daral had loved Keth in his own way but hated the condescending looks given to him by his older brother, the looks that meant he was not popular enough for Keth to bother with. Keth was caring, of course, but Daral had never forgiven him for the loss of Kedan. Kedan had understood. And Kedan had left them because of Keth. And now Daral was alone. It all seemed so far away now.

He buried his face in his hands, thought of Kelgyn and Kent. He was so tired. Perhaps if he sat still, he would wake up, find that this was all a dream, find everything right again. 

Suddenly, he sat up. Through the metal door he thought he had heard voices. He sat very still, hardly daring to breathe, waiting for the next sound. The vibration of the ship's systems through the walls hummed in the stillness. There they were; the voices again. But how could they be coming through the door? If the design of this ship followed standard civilian code, the door would be relatively thick to ensure privacy. Sounds that soft should not be able to penetrate from one room to the next.

Then he realized that the sounds were in fact coming though the intercom to the left of the door. Someone had quite obviously forgotten to turn off the intercom earlier. Daral put his ear to the speaker and listened, straining his ears.

"...think he...wake?"

"No...more than...three..."

"...stop...before Kess..."

"Already at..."

The voices broke off, but Daral had already heard enough. _Kess_-Kessel? 

It had to be.

Who did these men think he was? Was he worth so little, even to them? He shivered, thinking of the dark mines on Kessel, the cold, the stories he'd heard back on Imperial Center around the dinner table, the old men with dark undertones in the wavering voices when they spoke of it...

And the glitterstim spice it produced, which had ruined his brother's life.

Abruptly he stood, blinking back the last of the tears. He would not give up this easily. Walking to the door, he tried it, but of course it was locked, and only the correct fingerprints would open it. He sighed in frustration. What did the room have that he could use to break down the door? Some furniture bolted to the floor. No weapons of any kind. Not even a computer terminal. And he had no weapons. He had been thoroughly checked for any kind of arms before leaving the Academy. As if he were going to steal any of the Empire's means of destruction anyways. But that left him with nothing with which to defend himself if the men decided to shoot him.

Footsteps down the hall. Someone was coming. Daral threw himself to the side, heart pounding, waited.

The door slid open, and a man stepped inside, silouhetted by the bright light of the corridor outside. Daral held his breath. The man looked to the bed, swore, and Daral struck, using every self-defense technique he had learned in training on Carida. 

Leaping forward, he rammed the man hard in the back. The man bellowed, hit the deck with a bang, tried to roll over and gain a good grip on Daral's leg. The man's grip was sound and Daral found himself pulled to the floor alongside his adversary. The man drew back, still holding onto Daral's leg with one hand, and frantically aimed punches at Daral's face. One hit his forehead right above the eye, sending a searing white heat through his skull. Daral quickly twisted his leg out of the man's searching grasp and aimed rapid hand chops at nose and chin. There was a sharp cracking sound and the man jerked once, twice, and then was still, head thrown back at a grotesque angle.

_Oops._

Now what?

Quickly Daral sat up, knelt, suppressed a groan at the stabbing pain above his left eye. His searching fingers found its source: a large bulbous swelling on his forehead. It didn't seem to be bleeding, however. He turned his attention to the body beside him, listened with an ear to the man's chest to make sure he was really dead, then started rummaging through the man's clothes. He knew he didn't have very much time, for the fight had been a loud one and sooner or later the other man would come running out to see what was the matter. Daral threw aside the man's heavy cloak, finding a standard blaster with half-charged power pack, an ID card, probably forged, and some small change in Imperial script coins. He pocketed the coins and the ID, closed his fingers around the cold haft of the blaster, stood warily.

His head pounded and he almost fell. White spots danced before his eyes. He staggered to the wall, gripping the blaster as though it were his only salvation, which, in a sense, it was. There was still the matter of the other man aboard the transport, and, no matter what happened to him, Daral Krellis would still be the best blaster shot this side of the galaxy. Or so he hoped. He hadn't been shooting in a few weeks, not with exams and all. He hoped his aim was still as good as it had been.

His head was still throbbing, but it felt a little clearer. The door was closed. No problem. Daral raised his blaster, and fired.

The small blaster quickly became too hot to hold, and Daral tossed it from hand to hand, waiting for the smoke to clear. To his surprise, the door was almost entirely melted through. _Cheap transport model_. A few more shots and Daral squeezed through into the hallway beyond, turned the corner, and ran straight into his other captor.

The man was quick. Surprised as he was, he brought his blaster to bear on Daral almost immediately, red blaster bolts tracking towards Daral and melting small holes in the corridor walls. But that split second of hesitation gave Daral the time to shoot him through the head, neatly, efficiently. The man dropped to the ground, a black, smoking hole through the center of his forehead.

_Trust to Lady Luck. If she can't get me through, no one can. Not anymore._

Drawing a deep, ragged breath, Daral stepped back shakily, knelt, plucked the blaster out of the man's still twitching, clawlike fingers. He tucked it into the crook of his arm, began dumping the contents of the man's pockets on the floor of the ship.

There wasn't much. An ID, probably forged, that identified the dead man as Kesh Tarr, Imperial Intelligence. Daral snorted, dropped it into his own pocket on the side of his coveralls. If he could alter the holo image, the card would be useful. There were some coins lying on the floor, again mostly loose change. Daral pocketed those, too, though he couldn't see what he could buy with those. There wasn't much left. The beat-up comlink was so bent and mauled it would be good for nothing but space junk. Half a cheap cigarra. A scrap of paper still bearing the traces of old glitterstim spice. Daral grimaced, nudged it away. He had tried the stuff once; the memory still made his stomach feel queasy and his head light. A sabacc card. Frowning, Daral picked it up. One lone sabacc card? He turned it over in his hands, then smiled as he tapped the corner and watched the different card faces appear. A skifter card. That should come in handy. Daral had never been good at sabacc; it appeared that his luck was about to change. 

He stuffed the remnants of the pile back in the man's pockets, then stepped over the body, looked around. The ship was small. The door to his right probably led to cargo storage. Again, following the standard civilian transport model, the door at the far end of the hallways should be the door to the cockpit.

The door, like all the other doors aboard, was locked. Daral hesitated, trying to decide whether or not to blow the door open. He did intend to sell the ship, and a ship with working locks and doors would sell more than one without, even on the black market.

Daral shrugged, hefted his pocket blaster, squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. Muttering several stronger curses he had picket up from Kent at the Academy, he adjusted the recharge rate, picked up the other blaster, fired. A couple of quick shots and the door was taken care of.

The cockpit was as barren and disorganized as the rest of the ship. The transparisteel forward cockpit view showed the mottled gray of hyperspace and the auto chronometer showed arrival at destination in six hours, twenty-three minutes. Destination being Kessel?

He scooted into the pilot's seat and gave the instruments a quick glance-over. Antiqued, but nothing he couldn't handle. A couple of the company shipping transports had had controls similar to these and he had flown them fine.

He grimaced at the memory now. Gone, everything gone...shaking his head, Daral roused himself. No self-pity now. The navicomputer should give him the plotted course.

_Pull yourself together_.

As he expected, the information was locked down, but only with a simple safeguard system. The men aboard the craft apparently hadn't expected anyone to tamper with their equipment. The men. The _dead_ men. He needed to do something about that soon.

_I killed two men._

What is happening to me? What have I become? I might as well be dead myself. 

Daral wrenched his thoughts back to the computer, thankful that his semi-free time on Carida had been put to good use as a quasi-slicer for his section of the dorm. Of course, he had been using the codes to crack into the base commanders' personal files, but just the same, he was an old hand at this sort of thing now. The commanders had been furious, but they never found out who was responsible for breaking their security barriers. Or, if they had, had just let it pass. Perhaps they thought it would be good practice for a would-be Intelligence agent.

Intelligence agent! Daral thought bitterly, fingers poised in the middle of a code sequence that would override the coded security. Showed how much intelligence he had, joining the Naval Academy. The Imperials, thinking that they were so superior, making rules, more rules...

Daral jerked, suddenly aware of the computer screen's glare, finished keying in the code. There was a string of beeps, then the nav coordinates appeared. Just as he'd expected, Kessel was there. He also noticed that the computer only stored one set of coordinates at a time. They had come from Carida and were heading directly to Kessel. What other destinations the men had stopped at he had no way of knowing. These older transports did not carry backup coordinates.

He would have to come up with a new course, one that he could program in once the transport came out of hyperspace at Kessel, and hope that he was quick enough. But where? What system could he depend upon to remain anonymous, unknown, safe from unwanted eyes? Not Carida, or Coruscant. Not home. He had no home now. Well, he would come up with something. He was resourceful. He had time.

Daral Krellis buried his face in the crook of his elbow on the console and wept. 

"Admiral on the bridge!"

The crew of the _Protector's _bridge stood and saluted, eyes on their commanding officer as he exited the turbolift.

"As you were," said Harkov, stepping up to the forward transparisteel windows of the bridge, looking out onto the deceptively peaceful scene. He could feel the storm breaking somewhere not far away.

He turned, noticed the young duty officer approaching rapidly from the starboard side crew pit. That would be engineering. Harkov smoothed his olive-gray uniform, straightened his rank insignia. "Report, lieutenant," he said crisply.

The lieutenant, saluted, handed Harkov a datapad, moved to look over Harkov's shoulder. Harkov listened patiently as the lieutenant began spouting information.

"The forward tractor beam is out, sir, but I guess that's normal. We've got a crew working on it right now. We've sustained heavy scorching on our starboard flank by the solar ionization reactor, so that might be part of the tractor beam problem. We've also lost all power on some of the bottom levels due to the scorching. Mostly, though, repairs are coming along all right. Shields are getting back up; we didn't get hit too badly in the front although aft shield strength was down to 20 percent. The only thing that's given us any problem is the ionization reactor and the power problem. But I suppose that is not unusual."

"That's fine, Lieutenant," Harkov said absently, staring beyond the words on the data pad towards nothing. The tractor beam again. How many times had he petitioned High Command for an overhaul? How many times had they refused? Perhaps Daran was right; perhaps he should be putting in a request for an Imperial Star Destroyer. Something inside him twisted in pain at that thought, and he pushed it away. No. No Imperial-class ships. The Victorys he had now were in fine working condition, with the exception of the _Protector_, and he would stick to those. The Imperial Star Destroyers had too much power, too much ruthlessness, too much of Empire in their build. He did not want any part of that.

_More like release_...

"Thank you, lieutenant," he said, handing the pad back to the nervous deck officer. "Nothing more than I expected."

The officer saluted. "Yes, Admiral," he said quickly, then executed a smart military turn and headed back across the command walkway to his station. Harkov sighed, resumed his moody staring out the viewports. Below the window, lighted panels blinked in sequence, indicating the status of the ship. He ran his fingers over the cold metal and warm lights and sighed again. He had so much to think about, yet more time to think than he would ever need.

"Admiral!"

Harkov partly turned his head to the side. It was another young deck officer, slight of build and tow-headed. The officer saluted. "Captain Zeldiri wants to see you, sir, and General Cion, on some urgent business. They are in the war room now. Should I tell them that you are busy?"

The war room? What hare-brained strategy had Zeldiri come up with now? Harkov turned, almost reluctantly, away from the transparisteel window. "No. Tell them I shall be there myself in a minute."

"Yes, sir."

The receding clicks of the officer's boots down the command walkway faded away. Harkov moved his hand over the metal panels, feeling them hum beneath his fingertips. His own ship. His own command. Power and prestige. Recognition from Lord Vader himself. Was that not what he had dreamed of all his life? He had everything any man could ever want or need.

And yet, _was_ this what he wanted? The ruthlessness and inhumanity that accompanied the title of admiral? The senseless killing performed neatly, efficiently, by men become machine, reduced from human being to a faceless four-digit number? Was this everything life had to offer?

There was smoke, smoke and fire. 

"_Drask! Drask, where are you_..._?"_

He almost cried out then, gripping the metal panels until he could feel jolts of pain stabbing his arms. Why now, of all times? He had not seen these memories in years, did not want to see them now. He did not want to remember, to open that gaping dark wound inside of him that had closed up and festered but never quite healed. He wanted to forget, yet not to forget.

_More like release_...

Harkov slowly raised his eyes to the window again, looked out at the velvet canopy of space and the brilliant stars. Thousands, millions of stars. _For the destiny of all men, their life, their dreams, their souls, is in the stars_._ And in every man's heart is a desire to climb higher, to reach out and hold the stars in the palm of his hand, thus sealing his fate forever_.

_Forever_.

Harkov tore his gaze from the tantalizing stars so close, yet so far away, and headed for the turbolift.

It had snowed during the night, and the air inside the main Echo Base flight hangar tingled inside Leia's nose and throat as she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. A cloud of fog puffed out from her mouth and she pulled her thermal suit tighter around her. The cold was actually quite pleasant. It filled her, brushing her fatigue and irritability aside. Shafts of brilliant sunlight streamed in from around the ice slab blocking the opening of the cave and the retracted blast doors. A half-completed snowspeeder lay on the ground to her left, internal components strewn all around it on the floor. Two X-wings idled in their service bays, hooked up to power feed and refueling units. The cave itself was mostly devoid of life. Most people, except for the scouts out at this hour, were probably still having breakfast. An Artoo unit stood by one of the X-wings chirping softly to itself, and two maintenance droids bustled about lasing parts onto a snowspeeder. The wind whistled past the cave mouth.

Leia stood on one foot, then the other, looking around. She wondered if she were actually getting used to this. Sure, Yavin had been beautiful, but Hoth could be beautiful as well, in a stark, barren way. The landscape was desolate and lonely, but just looking out on that wide expanse of glittering white was enough to fill anyone with awe. There were the sunset ice storms that colored the air with millions of prismatic lights, the soft pastel colors of the ice mounds in the fading light, the strange and twisted ice sculptures frozen from underground volcanic steam, and the eerie flutelike music of the wind. She had grown to love Hoth in a way, even grown used to the freezing cold. Heating would be nice, but of course no one wanted the whole base to melt down.

She had never told anyone her feelings, not even Luke. Luke would think she was crazy. He didn't actually complain about the base, but Leia knew that he regarded Hoth as just a temporary stopping point, perhaps a year or two, but no more. He was constantly on the lookout for a more "suitable" base, as he put it, but Leia knew that he just couldn't abide the cold. She didn't blame him. Having lived in a desert climate for most of his life, he was understandably opposed to the Hoth weather.

Han would have just laughed at her and called her Your Worship. Almost against her will, she looked over at the empty space in the bay where the _Millennium Falcon_ would have been had it been here. She missed Han, she supposed, but, of course, the only reason she was so worried about him was because it was her duty to care for members of the Rebellion. It would be horrible for him to end up as a meal for some alien creature somewhere or to be vaporized by some bounty hunter out to collect a reward. She saw again in her mind the way his eyes crinkled up when he smiled, his crooked grin, his unkempt, shaggy brown hair, his cocky swagger. Heard his insolently cool voice say, Your Highness-ness. No, it was nothing personal.

_How long are you going to lie to yourself, Princess?_

There were footsteps behind her, echoing on the floor of the bay, and she spun around to see General Madine stride into the room, as handsome as ever. His gray-streaked brown hair was windblown and he was dressed in a warm thermal bodysuit, goggles, and carried a pair of macrobinoculars in his hand. Leia waved to him and he hurried over.

As he stopped near her, Leia wrinkled her nose at a sudden rancid smell that seemed to reach out and grab hold of her clothing and hair. "You've been out on the tauntauns, haven't you?"

"Yeah." Madine's mouth twisted sourly and he twisted his face in a grimace. "You're right. They do smell. But they're very efficient for transportation."

Leia laughed. "I've never been out on one, and I don't want to. Luke's stories are enough for me."

"Luke's exaggerating." Madine brushed a bit of unmelted ice from his hair and removed his goggles. He paused. "Well, maybe not exaggerating _that_ much."

Leia grinned at him and then quickly turned serious. "What did you want to see me about?"

Madine stopped in the middle of shaking ice from his boots, then glanced at Leia, moved closer. "There is a slight problem."

"What?" Leia felt alarmed. "Are Mon Mothma and Ackbar in trouble?"

"No, not that serious," Madine conceded. "As far as I know, they're still staying with the main fleet. I just received a transmission from Ackbar this morning. They'll be returning in about two days. Mon Mothma wants to conclude her tour of the medical frigates first. Rieekan, understandably, isn't too happy about them being away and that he can't talk to them if he needs them."

"Rieekan needs to think for himself," Leia snapped. She felt two days' worth of exhaustion and frayed nerves coming out onto the surface. Rieekan was pig-headed; that was what he was. She couldn't stand him, and he knew why. "He needs to be able to make his own decisions. He's not a child anymore."

"Leia-" Madine stepped closer, put a gloved hand on her arm. She flinched away. "Please. That's over. Don't think about it."

"No!" Her cheeks felt hot and she stepped back. Her voice rose. "Blast it, Crix, can't you see? It's not over! It never will be over. Not as long as there is an Empire, not as long as there are those of us that remember." She felt the tears again, felt Vader's vice-like grip on her shoulder, felt Tarkin's animal hatred. She saw his wolfish grin. _I grow tired of asking, so this will be the last time._ _Where is the Rebel base?_

She had tried. Oh, she had tried. And in the end, it wasn't enough.

But Rieekan had had his chance. He should have warned them. He was there.

_It was your fault as much as his._

The tears were rolling down her cheeks. She hiccuped, tried to stop them. They came faster. Madine stood there helplessly, twisting his goggles in his large hands.

_Dantooine_. _They're on Dantooine_.

__

Father, I tried._ I'm sorry_.

__

Dantooine.

__

Vader's breath. Alderaan, for the last time. A green bolt of light. Tarkin's smile of victory. The stench of decay from him suffocated her.

_They're on Dantooine_.

Rieekan!

She sobbed helplessly, her hands over her face. Arms came around her, the warmth of a body pressing close. Madine. She put her arms around him tightly and cried harder. He smelled of tauntaun, but she didn't care.

"I tried, Crix," she whispered. "I should have...Rieekan should have..."

"Shhh, it's all right. Leia, please."

"I told Tarkin...but he did it anyway...I tried...Tarkin..."

She had never told anyone what had happened on the Death Star. Never. It would have been too much for her. Her own guilt would have overwhelmed her. Madine patted her back gently.

"I should have tried harder...tried to stop him..."

She then realized two things. One, that she was babbling, that Madine had no idea what she was talking about. And secondly, that they had their arms around each other like..._Whoa!_ Startled, she pushed away. Madine let her go reluctantly, and she stood there, breathing hard, with tears still in her eyes, glancing at him accusingly.

"Leia-" he said, softly.

"No," she said. _I'm sorry, Crix_. "General, may I be excused? You may call me up later. I will be in the control center this afternoon."

He stood there, looking at her with such an expression of regret and disappointment that it almost broke her heart. Finally, he nodded, barely. She fled from the room.

"Leia!" he called after her, haltingly, hopefully. But she did not turn, even as she remembered the haunted expression on his face and the trails of wetness on his cheeks that were not made by melted snow.


	9. Eight: Ties to the Past

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This is a work of fan fiction and all canon characters, scenes, and concept are the property of LucasArts. Original characters and plot property of Gerald Tarrant.

Please do not repost this fanfiction without permission.  
lordofmerentha@yahoo.com 

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Eight: Ties to the Past

Leia's own room was dark and icy cool. Trembling, she half-stumbled across to her bunk as the door hissed shut and pressed her face to the soft pillow, letting all the tears flow. Her mind wandered wildly as she wept, conjuring up images of the past and present, memories in vivid colors.

Bail Organa had been a strong, caring father, a strong, caring man. She had had no mother that she could remember clearly. Yes, there was another image, a soft hand, a face that she could faintly recall, a voice.

But she had died.

So Bail Organa had been her father, and she had grown up in his house and people had called her Princess.

It had been pleasant, those childhood years on Alderaan. Memories of her aunts, her friends, of Winter who had been her best friend.

_Father, who is Winter?_

Her father had not known. No one knew. Winter was just there, hauntingly beautiful even as a small girl, silent, with her curtain of long, rippling pure white hair.

_Why is Winter's hair white, Father?_

Winter had always been there in Bail Organa's house on Alderaan. So Leia had become her friend. They had been different as rain and shine-cool, calm Winter, and wild, daring tomboy Leia. Princess, murmured visiting dignitaries to Winter. And Winter would smile, shake her head.

_No_._ I am not the princess_._ Leia is the princess_.

Leia with the tangled brown hair, torn skirts and scraped knees. Her father's friends looked at her and frowned and privately counseled Bail Organa to bring her up properly, as a princess should be brought up. And Bail smiled and let Leia run wild wherever she pleased.

She learned manners, eventually, as her father began bringing her along on his visits of state to other planets, where Senators' daughters dressed neatly and sat primly on the edges of their cushioned seats and ate their soup daintily with golden spoons. Leia hated it. But she had learned. And soon she could sip tea as elegantly as any of them, though she preferred the talk of politics Bail Organa had with the young ladies' fathers.

_Father, I want to become a Senator_.

She remembered how she had expected her father to be surprised, and instead was herself surprised by the calmness of his gaze and his nod.

Politics was not as easy as learning to sip tea, but Leia could wrangle with the best of them, and they were astounded because she was a woman. Natural talent, they said to her. Who are you? And those who knew said in superior voices, she is Bail Organa's daughter.

_No, I am some other man's daughter. Some other man who left his wife, my mother, who I cannot remember and who died before I ever knew her. I am not Bail Organa's daughter._

The Senate was different from anything she had ever experienced before. Those who had been astounded left her, seeking after their own personal glory. And Leia was left alone, speaking her mind to those few who would listen. But that number grew, yearly, monthly, weekly, daily.

Mon Mothma. The youngest senior senator ever of the Old Republic. Mon Mothma of the auburn hair and cool blue-green eyes. People listened to her, drawn to her by some invisible force that Leia had never had. Mon Mothma had listened and brought others to listen as well. Leia had talent. She was one of the best. And Bail Organa had smiled and nodded, but with worry in his eyes, because there were dangers.

Palpatine was a danger. He had always been, but neither Bail or Mon Mothma had thought of him as anything. A man who lusted after power and glory, and slowly but surely gained his goal. And it had been too late when Leia finally realized Palpatine's final intent.

She had tried, as she had tried with everything in her life. She had tried to stop him, to counter his destructive policies with sharp words. But somehow, she had failed.

_Father, I tried_. _I'm sorry_. 

She had tried to help Bail Organa in his Rebellion. Help him and Mon Mothma and Garm Bel Iblis of Corellia. She had liked Garm. Liked him very much. And Garm had liked her. But her father did not like it, and she did not see Garm again for a very long time. And Palpatine gained power and called himself the Emperor and declared a New Order throughout the galaxy.

Bail Organa retired, undiscovered by the Emperor, to Alderaan. Leia helped him as much as she could, but she had her own duties. She was a grown woman now, a Senator in her own right, although there was not much Senate left. She left Winter to care for her father.

_He was not your father_. 

She did not remember when she heard of the Death Star. Garm had told her of a secret pet project of Palpatine's but she had laughed it off, wanted to think that her efforts to defeat Palpatine had not been a total failure. And Garm had let her believe that, before her father had hustled him off to Corellia somewhere. 

_If you had really loved him, you would have searched for him_.

Perhaps she had not really loved him, after all. She had stopped wondering. He was probably dead, anyway.

The Death Star. Darth Vader. The Emperor's heavy hand was increasingly heavy on Alderaan. Leia worried about her father. His health was failing. He was growing old, and he was not as energetic as he once was. The Rebellion, she decided, would be her own responsibility now.

When had she decided that? She did not even remember. There had been councils of war, treaties with planets that had been brutally used by the new Empire, secret meetings with her father and Mon Mothma. And no Garm Bel Iblis. She supposed he gradually faded from her memory. She wondered now if she had faded from his.

_I never loved him_. _I only thought I did_.

The Emperor had to be stopped before he disbanded the Senate and declared the galaxy under his rule. Who could stop him? The leaders of the planets of the secret Rebellion that was no longer quite secret shook their heads in dismay. He is too powerful. Leia, shaking her fist at them, saying, You are members of the Rebellion! Where is your spirit?

_You do it, Princess_.

And then there had been Madine.

Young, handsome, dashing Crix Madine, when his hair was still rich, dark brown and he had still been daring and adventuresome. Commander of elite Imperial troops. The traitor to the Empire, who had turned to the Rebellion in its infant days, when it was still growing. Madine, who, aware what the senseless killing required was doing to him, knew that he had to defect or lose himself completely in the savageness of the New Order.

So he joined the Rebellion, secretly, slipping away from his Imperial duties now and then to negotiate his defection with Mon Mothma and General Rieekan, because the others did not trust him. And Leia had met him one night at an secret officers' meeting, when he was still technically an Imperial, serving in the Imperial army. Rieekan, introducing Madine to her. 

_Crix, I want you to meet Leia Organa, Bail Organa's daughter and a principle force in the Rebellion_. _Leia, this is General Madine_.

And Crix had smiled mysteriously and taken her hand and said, She's beautiful. Rieekan had taken it for a mere compliment on Madine's part, moved on. And that night, Leia truly fell in love for the first time.

So she was in love with General Crix Madine, the cocky, bearded commander, and Madine in turn was oblivious to the young Princess-Senator of Alderaan with the long brown hair and fiery temper. She did not see him much, for he was always back on mission training with his Imperial commandos. She had opportunities to send messages by his newly assigned aide. But what could one say in a message from an aide? 

It was another state dinner, a routine council of war conducted by Mon Mothma, on watery, beautiful Mon Calamari. Madine had somehow found a way to slip out unnoticed from his training exercises, and she was placed next to him. Suddenly she was shy, answering his friendly questions in whispers, picking at the delicious Mon Calamari delicacies on her plate and avoiding his gaze. Until dinner had been concluded and the council not yet begun and Madine said quite suddenly, walk with me.

She had been too startled to say no. So they walked through the corridors of the Mon Calamari embassy, she walking quickly, head down, and him following behind. At length they came to a large room covered by a dome and with windows all around looking out onto the emerald sea. She had been walking ahead of him feeling hot and embarrassed by her unexpected shyness until he called out to her, and she stopped, waited for him to catch up.

Except he never did. She had been gripped from behind and spun around before she had time to scream. And suddenly Crix's face was there, close to hers, and he was whispering, you idiot. I love you. Why are you running away from me?

Then he bent his head and kissed her long and sweetly on the lips, and she put her arms around him and returned it. So it was, that Crix Madine and Leia Organa stood together in the room surrounded by blue Mon Calamari sea and knew that they had each found in the other what they had been missing.

Except that again, it was not to be.

And so the days passed, with them spending as much time together as they could before Madine had to leave, while Bail Organa seemed not to notice. Or perhaps he approved more of Madine than he had of Bel Iblis. Though Leia did not see why. Bel Iblis had not been an Imperial deserter. Nevertheless, duty was first, and Madine had sent word, a heavily coded transmission, saying They suspect something. I will remain with my troops for now and return when I can. Be vigilant. 

And they had been vigilant. The Death Star technical readouts had been taken on Toprawa and Leia volunteered to retrieve them. But she had failed. Again. The _Tantive IV_ had not been fast enough. And she had been too slow. Vader. Tarkin. The screams of her crew as the stormtroopers boarded her ship.

_I grow tired of asking, Princess_.

_Dantooine_. _They're on Dantooine_.

Alderaan. The green bolt of energy and light. Vader's heavy breathing behind her.

_Rieekan, you failed your people_. _As I failed them_.

She lost her father who was not her father. The only father she had ever had was gone. And she had never been his daughter. She did not deserve to be. She had failed him.

Her one comfort was that Crix had not been on Alderaan. But that was small comfort. She was, at that time, already less in love with him than she had been. They had not seen each other for at least a year, and he had not sent word to her or any other official of the Rebellion. Perhaps she was bitter that he could not find the time to tell her he still loved her, though it was cruel of her to think that. Perhaps Alderaan had changed her in ways that she could not tell. Or perhaps she had never loved Crix, either. Perhaps he was dead.

_You are a failure_. _Daughter of an unknown man, you have failed those who loved you most_.

She had not seen Crix when she arrived hurriedly back on Yavin on the _Falcon_. He was still off fighting somewhere. But there was Luke. And Han. Luke, she had thought she loved, at first. But now she was not quite so sure. He was more like a brother. Han...

_He is a smuggler, Leia_. _And you are a princess_.

Luke and Han had done what Crix could not do. They had destroyed the Death Star, become heroes. And still Crix did not come back.

He returned one night, a day and a half after the Death Star, had burst into a Council meeting hastily with a message that there was a fleet of Star Destroyers building up near the Yavin system. Evacuate, he said. Evacuate now. He had glanced only once at her, a painful glance of recognition, but she looked away. She knew that she did not love him now. 

So they evacuated to Hoth. Madine had come with them, abandoning the Empire for good after he had received orders so vile that he knew he could have never lived with himself had he carried them out. In the last wave of evacuation, Dodonna had been lost to Imperial attack but rescued. By a team of commandos led by General Crix Madine. And Leia had gone up to Crix afterwards and said, I do not love you anymore, and nothing you do will win me for you again.

And the look of agony in his eyes was impossible to bear, but she bore it like she had borne Tarkin's injustice and left Crix there. And after that, he was just Madine again.

_Han, why have you left me now?_

The memory ended.

Leia sat up, taking in the dark room, the intercom light that blinked on and off in the blackness. She shivered. It was cold, and the level that the sleeping quarters were on was too far down to receive any sunlight. She wiped her eyes on the pillow, blew her nose. She could have taken it, like she had taken Alderaan, kept it in her soul, if Madine had not behaved like that. Couldn't he see that they were no longer together? That they should each go their own separate ways?

Her breath froze. Was that why he had wanted to see her?

Well, she wouldn't compromise. She had no time for things like that, anyway. There were messages that needed to be sent, weapons crews to supervise, officers to reprimand. Why did Madine care if she still loved him or not, anyway? Why did she care that Madine still loved her?

Why did she care that Han hadn't returned? 

She hadn't cared that Madine had not returned. It was just something to be lived through, forgotten. Han, though was different. She cared. She cared deeply.

_Don't even start, Your Worship_.

She jolted in surprise. The thought was similar to what Han would have said. Groaning softly, she took a deep breath to calm herself and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She would go wash her face and go question the security people about a blip on the northern perimeter. Anything that Madine wanted to say, he could say to her in the control room. There was no need for him to get her alone.

Resolved, she stood and started for the door.

"This is," Captain Zeldiri intoned solemnly, "A council of war."

Harkov sighed, tapped his fingers against the metal of the circular holo-film projector, spoke tiredly. "We all know it is a council of war, Captain. Please proceed and skip the formalities for today."

Zeldiri glanced at him with annoyance. He and Harkov had never liked each other, and probably never would. Different backgrounds, different worlds. Zeldiri had grown up as a pampered child of a wealthy family on Coruscant, his father being one of the joint owners of the incredibly successful SoroSuub company. Raised amid glittering palaces, fancy nightclubs and the majestic splendor of Imperial City, he had been accepted into the Imperial Academy purely because of his father's influence. Harkov had seen the man in action, seen him command, and wondered how in the worlds Zeldiri had advanced as far as the rank of lieutenant, let alone captain of the _Protector_. 

And however hard he tried, he just could not get rid of Zeldiri. An officer, especially a high-ranking one like Zeldiri, had to commit a serious crime to be demoted or transferred, and Zeldiri had not done any of that. He was just purely annoying, and as far as Harkov knew, that was no call for court-martial. High command would be reluctant to court-martial Zeldiri anyway, no matter what he did; Harkov had read about "the money power" once in his studies on Carida, and now, at least, he thought he understood a little of what the term meant. Zeldiri was also a die-hard Imperial. That could prove a problem...later.

Harkov returned Zeldiri's gaze mildly until the captain gave a shrug, as if to say that the admiral's opinion was of no importance to him, and turned back to the holo projector, signaled to General Cion.

The general worked the controls and activated the projector with a low hum. The picture that sprang up was a schematic of the fish-like freighter captured the other day.

"Ripoblus standard freighter/transport," Zeldiri said, waving at the image with a metal rod. "The design itself is unlike any we've seen before. We've analyzed the specimen brought in yesterday and carefully gone through the holds for other...illegals. Of course, the freighter is still under study and many of its components are of a different make than ours. Study should become easier once we actually come into contact with an inhabited Ripoblus world. We can pull a dump of their library and store whatever of their information we need."

"You'll do no such thing!" Harkov said sharply, startling General Cion with the vehemence of his retort. Zeldiri turned his sharp gaze towards him.

"And why not, sir?"

"We are fighting a war, Captain. I have become a butcher of innocents; I have no wish to become a criminal as well."

"Admiral," Zeldiri said with exaggerated patience, "they are no innocents. They are the enemy, and-"

"NO!" Harkov roared, cutting off the rest of Zeldiri's intended reply. "No," he repeated softly. "We stop their war. That is all."

The silence around the room was strained. "As you wish, sir," Zeldiri said mildly, though his tone was betrayed by the anger in his eyes. He turned away from Harkov and nodded to Cion. "Continue."

The schematic zoomed in closer to the forward part of the ship. "As I said," continued Zeldiri as if nothing had happened, "the design of this ship is unique but the placement of their systems is quite standard. The forward section contains the sensor array and targeting systems. Their communications array is above the cargo modules and the bridge, apparently, sits on top this ungainly structure." Zeldiri's mouth twisted.

Cion pressed another switch and the display changed to a detailed technical parts of another system. The weapons system, perhaps? Harkov had never been the engineering type.

"This is the weapons, or heavy laser, system," Zeldiri confirmed, waving his ridiculous pointer at the schematic. "Normally, on a freighter so old and obsolete, we would find inferior workmanship on any system. On a weapons system, especially, seeing how weapons have changed and improved over the past few years. But-note." With a flourish, Zeldiri gestured to Cion, who made several quick adjustments. The schematic shifted to an actual holograph of the weapons removed from the freighter. Harkov frowned. The system looked very much like the heavy lasers in use on Imperial ships. In fact...

"I see recognition on many of your faces," said Zeldiri grimly. "As a matter of fact, yet, it is a Sienar Fleet Systems manufactured heavy laser on that ship. A bit modified, but an SFS all the same." There were several sharp intakes of breath through the room. "I would say, Admiral," he turned to face Harkov almost challengingly, "That we now have more here than Lord Vader, or anyone, else bargained for on this mission."

Harkov nodded absently, his thoughts whirling wildly. This did throw a whole new twist on the mission. Of course, this was what everyone had expected after the freighter had been captured, but Harkov had been holding out for some hope, some sign that he would not have to do what was required of him. Now he knew why Mikov had raided the Ripoblus storehouse. Now he knew he might have to do the same.

He turned to face his officers. He could feel their eyes on him intently, some benign, some filled with rage, some coldly calculating. He cleared his throat. "Gentlemen," he said softly. "Gentlemen, you have just seen what I saw. The SFS system used on these freighters has been placed on strict monopoly only to the Empire. Any other use of it is illegal."

"More than illegal!" General Jerad exploded. "It is pure treason!"

Harkov glanced at him and he withdrew, muttering to himself. "Illegal," he repeated. "However, I have heard that...the Rebels," he swallowed, took a breath, sensed Daran's eyes focused on him, gauging him intently. "The Rebels have been conducting raids on Imperial freighters, hoping to acquire some of these systems for manufacture of their own fighters. This discovery, then, can mean two things. First, the Ripoblus might be smuggling directly from the Empire, and must therefore be punished severely. On the other hand, the Ripoblus might be taking supplies from the Rebels, which is a different matter altogether."

"What is different?" Harkov looked around for the speaker and found him. Commander Silpren, his bulky form and belligerent stance hard to miss. "What would be different?" he demanded. "Sir," he added belatedly at the end.

"If they are smuggling from the Rebels," Harkov said harshly, his patience quota running low, "they would in a sense be helping the Empire."

Silpren snorted. "Smuggling from Rebels or not, I say we teach the rabble a lesson! Smuggling is smuggling. Better they be smuggling from the Rebel scum; then we would have an excuse to go after both!" Several nods around the room added weight to his statement.

"Besides, sir," Cion said from his position at the projector. He clicked on the holo image of the freighter. "Why wait when they do start stealing from the Empire, if they aren't already? Sooner or later, the Rebel raids will fail, and the Ripoblus will have to smuggle directly anyhow. I say now, sir. Now!"

"Wisely said, General." Zeldiri sounded smug. Harkov wished he could punch him in the nose. Except that would have earned _him_ court-martial instead of Zeldiri. Frustration threatened to overwhelm him.

"Excuse me, sir," General Daran broke in. He had obviously seen the tension between the two building to the breaking point and wisely decided to intervene. "You said this freighter was old, did you not?" Zeldiri nodded, looking unsure of where this argument was going. "Well then, sir, why couldn't all these illegal systems have been bought before the Empire took control? As you said yourself, the ship itself is so old and obsolete that the system you speak of might be old as well." Harkov glanced at the TIE op/off. Daran stood there, arms folded, expression intent and focused.

Zeldiri turned on Daran with ill-concealed dislike and suspicion. "General," he said with exaggerated calm and patience, as if speaking to a child. "We have fully qualified engineers and scientists on board this vessel. I would not have brought this matter into council had that been the case. However, the system has been positively identified as a recent Sienar model. When it was scanned, the manufacture code had not been erased. It is most certainly Imperial."

Daran nodded, his face inscrutable, though Harkov had no doubt that Daran wanted to punch Zeldiri in the nose as well. "Yes, sir," he said, his voice strained but calm.

Zeldiri sneered at him for a moment more, then continued on with the rest of his lecture as if Daran had not spoken. Harkov sighed, tried to look patient, and waited.

It was another half hour before Zeldiri let everyone leave, much to Daran's annoyance. What annoyed him the most, however, was that Zeldiri insisted on offering final advice to everyone on everything. Not content to let officers plan their own strategy, Zeldiri threw large elaborate schemes at them that were full of tactical errors even a junior-grade cadet could have seen through. Except, Zeldiri could not.

Zeldiri finished, made his grand exit with three aides trailing, and left the rest of the yawning commanders to sort themselves out. With much grumbling, the others bent to gather their various datacards. Daran made to gather his own and then saw Harkov gesturing to him out of the corner of his eye. He nodded slightly, looking unconcerned, although his mind whirred with questions. Did Harkov know Zeldiri was dangerous? Yes, probably. Whatever else he was, Drask Harkov was no fool. Then what did he intend to do about it? Much as Daran would have liked to take Zeldiri out in a full-blown free-for-all as was common in his boyhood on Kepshun, those kinds of things were not allowed in the Imperial Navy. Daran gritted his teeth involuntarily, then forced himself to relax. Nothing, not even Zeldiri, was worth another trip to the ship's dentist. The first -and hopefully only- time had been brutal enough.

By the time he judged it safe to look up, most officers had already left the room, including Harkov. Cion puttered about a while, trying to look busy while keeping an eye on Daran, then finally gave up and with a final distrustful look at Daran, went out the door. Daran sighed. Harkov was nowhere in sight. He might as well leave too. Perhaps he could catch the admiral later and ask him what that signal had been about.

The doors of the war room hissed open at his approach and Daran stepped through the doorway. There was a slight noise as a figure stepped silently out from another doorway further down the hall. Daran started, then recognized Harkov. Without a word, the admiral beckoned him towards the door. He stepped through and the doors closed behind him.

He found himself in a small, trapezoidally shaped room which was a complete contrast to regulation starship design. It was simply but tastefully furnished with a polished wooden desk, a dark upholstered armchair behind the desk, and a small bar in one corner. The walls were paneled with mahogany colored wood and a deep blue throw rug on the cold gray metal floor accented the feeling that he was not on a starship at all, perhaps just on a study on another planet somewhere. He lifted his eyes to the admiral in amazement and was distracted momentarily by a picture on the opposite wall above the desk.

The picture was of a small blue-green planet, unremarkable in that aspect, but what fascinated Daran were the clouds. Swirling around the planet were clouds of every color imaginable: dark teal, bright green, deep red, royal purple, light pink, and opaque white tinged with gold. The scene was so beautiful, so exotic, that Daran could not take his eyes off the planet with its amazing cloud cover. 

Harkov moved to the desk. "Yes," he said quietly. "It's amazing, isn't it?"

His voice was filled with bitterness and quiet anger. Daran jerked his eyes away from the picture, searching the admiral's face. But it was a mask, unreadable except for the tightness around the eyes. Without a word, Harkov gestured for Daran to sit.

Daran looked around, found a stool, and pulled it towards him and sat down slowly. He looked at Harkov again, mentally gauging him, judging that tired, harsh face. He was a hard man, certainly, hard despite his efforts not to appear so. There was an edge to him that everyone felt. Daran had felt it more than once. The crew loved him, would die for him if necessary, for he was a good commander, quick to listen and dispense justice, cordial and even personal at times. But never gentle. Kind, perhaps, but not gentle. Always that iron look, as if his heart had been stolen from him and kept under lock and key. Or perhaps as if he were afraid. Afraid of what would happen if that mask he wore were taken from him and his heart returned.

Harkov shook his head a fraction, as if clearing it, then looked tiredly at Daran. "General," he said.

"Sir."

"Kindly answer this question first, before we discuss your business here." Harkov looked at him with a quizzical expression. "When you spoke with Zeldiri earlier in the meeting..." he trailed off, looked at Daran.

Daran smiled faintly. So Harkov had noticed. "Admiral..."he trailed off, casting a significant glance at Harkov.

"You may continue at your leisure, General," Harkov said dryly. "This is my private study. There are no recording devices installed here."

"I understand, sir. As to your first question, I know I speak very little.You have probably guessed that it is an effective tool to keep people like Zeldiri at bay. You must admit, sir, that my silence gives everyone the impression that I know less than they do."

"It does, indeed," Harkov said rather ruefully. Daran wondered if the admiral had had the same impression. Then Harkov straightened, looked Daran full in the face.

"Just what exactly, then, are you doing here?"

The question caught Daran by surprise. "Sir?"

"You heard me, General." There was nothing soft in Harkov's voice. "What are you doing here? Were you commandeered by that woman, Mon Mothma, to spy on me? Are you a traitor yourself?"

"Admiral!" Daran stared at him, in shock and anger. "I would ask you to refrain from referring to Mon Mothma as 'that woman.' And I am by no means a traitor!"

"I do not like Mon Mothma," said Harkov, matching Daran's gaze steel for steel. "I do not think I ever shall. And if you are not a traitor, then what are you?"

Daran let Harkov's gaze burn through him for a moment more. "I am a Rebel, sir," he said simply.

Harkov threw up his hands in exasperation. "General, that is not the reply I want, and you know it!"

"Well, sir, that is the only reply you will get if you keep on like this."

"Tell me what you want," said Harkov simply, laying his hands on the polished surface of the desk. "Tell me what you want from me. You have served with me three years, General, and never said a word."

"You were not a Rebel three years ago."

Harkov opened his mouth. "Wait!" Daran hurriedly leapt into the gap before Harkov could retort. "Admiral, let me explain." He paused. What should he tell Harkov? How much? How much was safe? He saw Harkov waiting impatiently. He opened his mouth to tell the truth, then closed it. No. He swallowed.

"I have served with you three years, sir, but I have been serving the Rebellion eight years already. Even before I was signed onto the _Protector_. I suppose you could say that I am a 'spy' of sorts, though I have not actually been trained for high-level espionage. I came through the Academy and served four years on the _Event Horizon_-another Victory-before being transferred. I met some friends on the _Horizon_-"

"Rebel friends," said Harkov. His voice did not change, but his lips whitened as he pressed them together. "I heard about what happened to the _Event Horizon_." 

Daran swallowed again, hoping Harkov had not seen through his half-truth. Yes there had been an _Event Horizon_, but he had never served on it for four years. The first time he had set foot on an Imperial ship, the first time he had seen that face, he knew he could not stay. It had always been the voice at the Academy, a voice he could not quite place. But the first time he saw the face, seen the familiar and yet terrifyingly new lines of that expression, he had known that the man was gone forever. And he could never bring himself to serve someone who he knew could never be brought back to who he used to be. Years of too much power had changed the man. Too much power, too much hate. 

"Yes, sir, Rebel friends. I was lonely and sick of the Empire and its conquests. They knew that and persuaded me to defect. It was not very hard." That was an understatement. Flynn and Averis had merely suggested and he had lept at the suggestion. "We escaped from the_ Horizon_ in the...attack, and my friends took me to Yavin IV, the old Rebel base. They got me an interview with Mon Mothma and she got me signed on to covert operations. I don't know why. Apparently she thought I would be good at that sort of thing."

"And you are," Harkov said. Daran surreptitiously wiped the sweat off his palms.

"Well, I suppose that depends on your point of view. But back to the topic, sir, I knew I couldn't leave it at covert operations. I knew there were more people out there, in the Empire, that were just as tired of it as I was and would willingly join the Rebellion. So I changed my name, got into the Imperial databases and altered my records, and then pulled some strings..."

"And got signed on to my ship. I presume the 'General' is a cover as well?"

Daran forced himself to nod, to keep the truth from slipping out. He would tell no one. No one until he found someone who he could really trust. 

_There is no one. All men are liars._

"I see." Harkov's voice was bland, expressionless. Then his expression changed subtly to slight interest. "Have you by any chance met General Crix Madine?"

The truth, now. There was no harm in that. "Yes, sir. I served under him before being assigned here."

"And what was your impression of him?"

"He is a superb commander, sir," Daran said. Another understatement. Madine was brilliant. "One of the best I've ever met. He keeps to himself, mostly, or did when I knew him. But he was one of the best, certainly." He paused. "He was very sarcastic, too. Knew when and how to hit 'em."

Harkov grimaced slightly. "The superb commander part was a bit lost on me, but I remember his sarcastic side very well."

"Ah." Daran couldn't think of anything else to say. Of course. It had been a long time. Madine was on Hoth. And there was no one better than him to advise Mon Mothma on Harkov's position, having been an Imperial himself. The Emperor had favored him, too. At least that was what Averis said. _Don't think on that._ And Harkov had Vader's favor...

Harkov abruptly stood. "I had better get back to my duties, General. I presume you must do the same."

"Yes, sir," Daran nodded, got up from the stool and pushed it back. Was that all Harkov had wanted? To ask him about his background? He stole a glance at the admiral and was surprised to find him staring at the desktop, fists tightly clenched and white-knuckled, face contorted as if in pain. For the first time, Daran felt a flash of regret at having lied to the admiral, but there was nothing else he could have done, really. He put back the stool quietly and then looked up at the admiral again, but that brief moment of anguish was gone.

No, he had wanted something more. Daran had seen, the past few days, the indecision plaguing him, the torture in his mind about the decisions he had to make. But he was too proud to ask for help. From anyone. Even now.

_How long can you hold on to your mask, Admiral? How long will you continue to fool yourself? Your time is running out, and you cannot pretend forever._


	10. Nine: Those Who Were Left Behind

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This is a work of fan fiction and all canon characters, scenes, and concept are the property of LucasArts. Original characters and plot property of Gerald Tarrant.

Please do not repost this fanfiction without permission.  
lordofmerentha@yahoo.com 

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Nine: Those Who Were Left Behind

"Lights!"

The sensitive computer system did not recognize the snapped, growled sound directed at it. The room remained dark.

"Blast it!" Kelgyn yelled, his shout echoing around the dark and empty dorm room. "I said lights!"

The lights did not turn on.

Kelgyn sighed loudly, cursed at the computer in languages from at least nine different planets, and then resigned himself to changing out of his workout garb in the dark.

He worked quickly, feverishly, his hands almost tearing the light cloth sash apart in his haste to undo it. He slipped out of his soft upper tunic and threw it to the ground. He had to hurry! Kent...

Kent might be dying.

It had started as a regular workout. Kelgyn and Kent had walked into the gym, not speaking, somber at the tragedy that had just occurred and taken their best friend away from them. Around the room, other cadets glanced surreptitiously at them and then looked away, pretending not to notice the absence of the third party, the tall, muscular blond, the cocky ace pilot. Kelgyn had just barely noticed the looks, still trying to comprehend his loss. He knew standard Imperial procedure. He would never see Daral again.

__

And for the first time in his whole life, he wondered if applying to the Imperial Academy had been the right choice.

They had logged into the computerized roll check, still in silence as they both started over to the opposite end of the room to where the Mimbradi self-defense teams were practicing. They faced each other on the mat and took the trademark Mimbradi stance of hands above the head, one foot forward, muscles loose and relaxed. Kelgyn looked at Kent, gauging him although he knew that Kent would certainly beat him again. 

Al'ken'tail Tagrawar was tall, had been the tallest of the three of them, almost half a head taller than Daral. He was slim too, but with a kind of masculine slimness that spoke of deadly speed and grace in his movements. His short dark blond hair had hung long below his shoulders in the tradition of his tribal people when he had first arrived three years ago from Inturee, a world that Kelgyn had never heard of, but considering that most people had never heard of Myrkr either, that was all right. He was in Kelgyn's graduating class, and coincidentally had been ahead of him in the long registration line that heralded a new cadet's arrival on Carida.

"Name!" the enlistment officer had snapped, seated behind the gray desk at a computer terminal.

The long-haired boy then pronounced some sort of rolling unintelligible sound. The officer snorted. 

"That won't do, boy. Give me a name, not a clan identification signal!"

The boy said nothing.

"Blast it, cadet! I don't have all day! Now give me a name or you're being shipped back out to your barbarian land where you belong!"

The boy cocked his head. "Kent," he finally said. "My name is Kent...Tagrawar." His voice was pleasant, a softly accented tenor with a slight drawl as he spoke the Basic words. Kelgyn had liked him immediately.

He had learned later that Kent had an acute sense of humor, loved to eat, and wasn't bothered by the fact that he came from a world where the tribal system was still dominant, although he was just as comfortable with modern weapons as any of the others. The first and only time somebody had attempted to taunt Kent about his ancestry, Kent had just merely stood there and looked at the other boy. Kent was tall, and the other cadet was short, and that was the end of that. And then there was the swoop racing.

The first time Kent had gotten to fly a swoop, he was hooked. He and Daral would spend hours sitting on their beds, heads together, planning new tactics to get the other teams back for their defeat, or prancing around the dorm room with ear-splitting native war cries (which Kent had taught to Daral) of victory while Kelgyn scowled and tried to study. No matter that swoop racing was illegal. Daral and Kent snuck away every weekend to the local ring and had soon incorporated Kelgyn into their scheme. And once Kelgyn had flown a swoop, he couldn't have stopped any more than Kent could. So the races continued, except that the team was now three instead of two. They won more often than they lost and often came away with a good share of prize money...except on those occasions when the authorities found out about the racing and came in with stormtroopers to break it up. Everyone dispersed quickly when that happened. But that was only once or twice. And they had never gotten caught.

But now Daral was gone.

Everything familiar seemed to have dissolved before Kelgyn's eyes at Daral's departure. The gym and everyone in it was as new and frightening as it had been on his first day at the Academy. His palms began to sweat as he and Kent circled, looking for an opening. Kelgyn felt like a week-old cadet, lost, scared, and...

And angry. Angry at the authorities, at the Empire, at the Emperor himself. It was a cold, gut-wrenching feeling that felt wrong, somehow, but he nursed it, kept the fires burning. The Empire had no right to punish Daral for what his brother did. The anger swelled, became hatred. Kelgyn felt like strangling the Emperor with his bare hands. He could see that old, wizened face before him, those eyes looking out at him, leering at him. _I command you_, those eyes seemed to say. _You are my slave. I command and you obey. I command_... 

With a cry, Kelgyn lunged forward, grappling with all his might at the Emperor's features. He felt cloth beneath his fingers, a tangible form returning his attack. He swung, again and again, not with any self-defense technique, but with the fires of pure rage surging to the surface. _Die! Die! Die!_ Nothing mattered but the anger. He was the anger. He would kill the Emperor. Kill! 

A muffled moan jolted his thoughts. Surely that was not the Emperor! The moan came again, a soft cry of helplessness. The red fog that had seemed to obscure Kelgyn's vision lifted. Before him, in a heap on the mat, lay Kent. He was curled up in a tight ball, barely twitching as pressed both hands to his face. Blood leaked from between his fingers. His skin was a mass of bruises. As Kelgyn watched, Kent twitched again, gasped in air, and then exhaled. His body went still.

Kelgyn sucked in his breath in horror, then with a wrenching cry, dropped down beside him. "Kent!" he whispered frantically. "Kent! No. You can't...Kent, you've got to be alive. Hang on. I'll get help. Kent!"

Pattering footsteps behind him alerted him to the presence of the other cadets, who had left off at their activities at the sight of Kent's body sprawled on the mat. They gathered around, staring in stunned shock. Kelgyn closed his eyes as feelings of horror overwhelmed him. He pressed clenched fists to his eyes, trying to shut out the image of Kent, beaten, bloody, dying...

By Kelgyn's own hand.

How could his feelings have carried him away like that? For a moment, Kelgyn had _seen_ the Emperor there, before him. He remembered the hate boiling up, consuming him. So much power! It was as if the hate itself fed him, gave him power beyond his own abilities. Power to do anything he wished, just as long as he kept that anger bottled up inside.

Power even to kill.

He moaned softly, rocking back and forth beside Kent as a rough voice reached his ears. 

"Move back, boy. I said, move back!"

Hands grabbed him, forced him back. He did not resist, instead, went limp and allowed himself to be dragged back while two medical personnel in drab olive uniforms with the medical symbol on one shoulder and the Imperial crest on the other lifted Kent onto a medevac repulsor stretcher. As soon as Kent's body was hooked to the monitor, a red light flared to life, signaling critical condition. The medics moved him out, and Kelgyn had stumbled out of the door of the gym, walking in a daze back to the dormitory room that he, Daral, and Kent had shared in an earlier, happier time. 

The lights still had not turned on by the time Kelgyn had finished putting on his cadet's required uniform and exited his room, hurriedly brushing past other cadets in the hallway, intent on getting to the medical center. Halfway there, he started to run. The hot Caridan sun beat down on him, scorching his skin, but he kept running.

As Kelgyn, gasping, approached the med center, however, he noticed a grim-faced officer nearby, his rank insignia identifying him as a lieutenant. Kelgyn dimly recognized him: Lieutenant Escrath, one of the Academy's cadet training officers. Escrath signaled him to halt, then held up one finger, beckoning.

"Come with me, boy," he said harshly, barely glancing at him, and began walking rapidly towards the offices adjoining the med building.

Kelgyn moved mechanically, shuffling his feet behind Escrath. He would be expelled. He knew it. Just like Daral. Expelled and sent back home to Myrkr, to his parents' disgrace and the horror of his friends. He could see the disgust on their faces as he explained to them why he had been sent back.

_Why did they kick you out?_

I killed a man.

We will all be gone soon. Daral, expelled for something he didn't do. I, sent back for killing one of my best friends. And Kent, dead because of me.

Daral. I deserve it. But you..._you never did._

Escrath unlocked the door of one of the offices and stepped inside, followed by Kelgyn. The harsh light made Escrath's long, thin face look like that of a ghoul. Kelgyn swallowed nervously as the officer regarded him with expressionless eyes.

"What is your name, cadet?" The voice was as severe as the face, a hard, mechanical tone.

Kelgyn swallowed again. "Dyrrod, sir." It came out in a squeak. "Kelgyn Dyrrod."

"What system?"

"Myrkr."

The officer frowned. "That is a little known system. Do you know what you have just done, Cadet Dyrrod?"

"Is-is he-"

"I am no medic, cadet. But it will be a medical wonder if he ever regains consciousness. Or even if he survives the hour." Kelgyn winced, but Escrath kept talking in that flat, emotionless voice, as if nothing could break that austere demeanor. "You, however, cadet, are a different matter."

"Sir, I-"

"Shut up, Dyrrod!"

Kelgyn was startled by the vehemence in that voice. "Yes, s-sir," he mumbled.

"You do not interrupt a senior officer. You talk when I ask you a question. That is all. Is that clear, cadet?"

Kelgyn nodded frantically.

"In all likelihood, you will be expelled from the Academy. However, cadet, there is a chance that you may remain. The Empire is always looking for better soldiers, and your performance today was admirable. It speaks of your potential."

Kelgyn could hardly believe his ears. His _performance _was..._admirable_? He had almost killed Kent! Was Escrath insane? How could he be praising Kelgyn's fighting skills when he had almost killed a man? He opened his mouth, then closed it as he remembered Escrath's earlier warning.

"In the unlikely possibility that High Command permits you to stay, Dyrrod, I will file a request to have you transferred to high-level combat training immediately."

High-level combat training? Realization hit. Escrath was praising his fighting ability. He was praising his skill in hand-to-hand combat. Because of what had just happened, Escrath was transferring him to the stormtrooper training unit.

Because he had almost killed Kent.

Everything he had wanted to ask Escrath about fled. His mind felt numb, a blank void. How was this possible? How could the Empire be so brutal? How could he have been so blind to have not seen it from the start?

Kelgyn stared at Escrath and silently cursed himself for being a fool.

Escrath's comlink crackled. The officer unhooked it from his belt. "Yes?"

"Lieutenant Escrath?"

"Speaking."

"This is Jerrel from medical. The boy is dead."

Kelgyn's heart stopped. Blackness swam before his eyes. He fought to keep from passing out in front of Escrath. Escrath paid him no attention.

"He had stopped breathing when he was brought in," Jerrel continued. "He was still alive, but his brain was crushed from the broken skull bone. We felt like it would only prolong the inevitable if we treated him."

No! Kelgyn's brain reeled. Kent dead. And they had done nothing to save him. Nothing at all.

"He was just another cadet, after all." Jerrel paused. "You do not approve, sir?"

"No matter," Escrath spoke flatly into the comlink. "You are right. He was just another cadet. If there was nothing to be done, then you were correct. Thank you for informing me, Jerrel."

"Yes, sir."

Escrath replaced the comlink on his belt. "So, Dyrrod, the other boy is dead. Nevertheless, you have great skill. Further training should enhance these techniques to stormtrooper level. I shall file the request immediately, provided that the authorities deem you worthy to stay. Perhaps you shall graduate a year early and be assigned to a commando team. That would be a great honor. Commandos are the finest of the Empire's soldiers."

"Yes, sir," Kelgyn mumbled.

_He was just another cadet. Your performance was admirable. Just another cadet_... 

Escrath's words echoed in his ears as Kelgyn stumbled out of the office and back to his room, where he could be alone. Alone.

Darth Vader stood alone, a sinister black-cloaked figure, waiting in the middle of the small room. He felt the man coming down the long corridor before the door hissed open.

"Yes, lieutenant?" he said quietly.

"Incoming message for you, Lord Vader," the man said quickly.

Vader did not turn around. "Indeed? I will take it here."

"Yes, my lord." The man's tone held reverence and fear, just the right amount, as he exited and spoke into a small comlink.

The Holonet transmitter flared to life. A small holo of a middle-aged, nondescript man stood there. Vader recognized him as one of his top spies.

"Yes?"

"My lord, we have traced the records of this boy back as far as they go. It appears that Tatooine was indeed his home planet, as you suspected. He lived there on a moisture farm with a certain uncle and aunt that were both...disposed of in an...accident."

"How unfortunate," Vader said dryly. So far, so good. "Continue."

"There is no record of his birth, or his parents." The man looked at Vader. "His records are short; there is nothing else that we have found. We conducted an extensive search."

"You have done well." Vader regarded the spy thoughtfully. "And his name?"

"Skywalker. Luke Skywalker."

Vader felt a chill run through him at the familiar name, recalled his dream of Obi-Wan. "You found no record of his family?"

"None, my lord."

"I need more information, Tarriko."

"My lord, the extent of my-our-expertise in this area is small. Perhaps another organization-Black Sun-?"

"No! Not Black Sun!" Vader spat the name. He would have nothing to do with Black Sun. Nothing to do with that criminal organization, nor its cold-blooded leader. Bad enough that Xizor was creeping up the ladder towards the Emperor's favor. He would do nothing to make the Dark Prince think that he had Vader's favor as well.

"But my lord, Black Sun is the most-"

"I know what Black Sun is, Tarriko. And I will not have that organization meddling in my affairs!"

"As you wish, my lord." Tarriko bowed. "I will continue to search the records for more information."

He bowed again and terminated the connection.

Vader stood and ran through Tarriko's information in his mind. He had suspected as much. Little wonder that the boy's records were obscure. A moisture farmer on Tatooine had little to do with any power outside the planet.

Until now.

Luke Skywalker. Who was this Luke Skywalker? Could he be a relative? Vader could recall no relatives of his that had borne children. Could he be a close relation, one he had not known about? Unlikely. Could he be-

Vader's breath caught in his throat, painfully. For a moment, the mechanical breathing paused, creating a dead silence in the room.

Could he be his son?

No, that was impossible. He had not had a son. His wife was dead. There was no way in the worlds he could have had a child.

And yet the possibility was there. And Vader could not shake the feeling that somehow, it might be true.

His son.

Vader's mouth curled upwards in a cruel smile. He ignored the pain, feeling the dark side come to him. That did put a whole new twist on things. Skywalker had Force powers. Great Force powers. Perhaps equaling Vader or the Emperor himself. The Emperor did not have to know, not yet, until Vader knew for certain, but it was still a most enlightening revelation.

Something else to think about.

Daral awoke with a start to the beeping of the alarm clock. Sleepily, he rubbed his bleared eyes and reached out to shut it off-

And then jerked fully awake as reality set in. The navicomputer was beeping, telling him that they were coming up on the Kessel system.

His palms suddenly felt sweaty and he rubbed them on his dirty, soiled pants before reaching out and settling one hand on the hyperdrive lever. The time on the chronometer ticked down. He braced himself...

And as the time reached zero, Daral pulled back on the lever. Starlines flared around him and condensed in pinpricks of light, signaling his entrance into realspace. Kessel squatted before him, an ugly brown mottled planet with one moon. He could see the huge mining complexes even from space.

His comm crackled to life. "Unidentified ship, you are entering a private sector. State your name and business."

Daral did not answer, but instead set to work programming new coordinates into the navcomputer.

The voice on the other end of the comm spoke again, this time sounding angry and annoyed. "Unidentified ship, respond immediately or prepare to be attacked and boarded!"

Daral's finger's flew as he fed the coordinates into the computer. Almost done...

Around the bend of Kessel, a squadron of Z-95 Headhunters could be seen approaching. Normally, Daral would have felt at ease taking out any amount of Headhunters. After all, Headhunters were old and not very sturdy. Two or three well placed shots would easily take one of out action.

But then there was the fact that the civilian transport he was piloting had no weapons.

Daral's fingers flew faster. So did the Headhunters. One fired a warning shot, but the red bolt vanished a good distance away. Far, but not far enough.

He spared a moment to quickly glance over the console. Ah, yes. The craft did have minimal shielding. He boosted the shields as high as they could go, slowing down the transport. He was in no hurry to reach Kessel, anyway. 

Another laser blast, closer this time. Daral cursed the transport for not being a more advanced model and continued to work.

"Unidentified ship," squawked the comm. Daral reached over and slapped it off. A look outside showed the Headhunters to be almost in range.

A laser bolt flashed past the windshield. Daral yelped, and quickly brought the transport over and up. The Headhunters were not daunted. They were in range and began to fire.

Once again, Lady Luck saved him. Either the Headhunters were bad shots, or Daral's piloting of the transport was better than he thought, because most of the shots missed. As he tried frantically to maneuver out of the way of their laser blasts, he typed in the remaining coordinates with one hand.

Yes! He was finally done! The hyperdrive engines should be running and ready. He gave them a quick check just to make sure, and as the last of his shields failed, he pulled the lever.

Stars faded into starlines.

Daral sighed a long sigh of relief and slumped in the pilot's chair. His shirt was soaked with sweat. He had dreamed for years about his first space battle. He had always envisioned himself seated inside a TIE Fighter or Interceptor, fighting gallantly to keep the Rebel X-wings or A-wings at bay.

Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined it would take place with himself at the helm of an old, broken-down civilian freighter, fending off Z-95 Headhunters from a prison planet.

Well, no matter. His lip twisted in scorn as he half-lay there, thinking of the Academy and the Empire. Never again would he be taken in by their twisted messages of glory and power. He knew them for what they were, now. He could see through their arrogant façade now. And for what they had done to him and thousands of others, he would get even.

Not by joining the Rebellion. Rebellion, indeed! Another organization, other rules. Rules were made to be broken, and you couldn't break the rules in that kind of desperate union. But someday, somehow...

He wondered how Kelgyn and Kent were doing. He wondered if they were having fun without him, if they had gone on and forgotten about him already.

Deep down inside, he knew that they would never do that. But that feeling of loneliness told him otherwise, pushing him down, making him feel small and insignificant. There had always been the money before, the promise of a home and a comfortable life even if he hadn't wished to make one for himself. But now…

It was as if he was the only person in the universe, as if everyone else he loved and hated was dead, and he was barreling through hyperspace in a stolen freighter that would never reach a destination.

He shook his head. He should take another nap. There was nothing that needed to be done. He'd disposed of the dead men by ejecting them in an escape pod into hyperspace, where he hoped they would not bother anyone, then he had gone through the small kitchen, finding a few ration bars. Yes. He should definitely go to sleep. It was a long way to his next stop.

Legend had it that when the Maker created the galaxy, he shaped planets out of new, raw material, burning and scraping away the impurities into a little heap of unfit matter to be taken care of later. The finished planets were beautiful. Coruscant, Yavin IV, Hapes, Corellia, Alderaan. And then he had taken the little heap of castoff components and thought and then shaped it into a planet as well.

So now Daral was headed to the most useless, most barren, most worthless planet in the entire galaxy. The planet shaped out of the dregs of all the other planets ever created. The ultimate resting place for the scum of the universe. 

Tatooine.


	11. Ten: Second Round

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This is a work of fan fiction and all canon characters, scenes, and concept are the property of LucasArts. Original characters and plot property of Gerald Tarrant.

Please do not repost this fanfiction without permission.  
lordofmerentha@yahoo.com 

* * *

****

Ten: Second Round

Space was dark, cold, and empty. Harkov stood at the main viewport of the bridge, staring out at the blackness, one hand resting on the humming monitors beneath the window. Nothing, as far as he could see. Nothing but space and stars.

He was beginning to wonder what the Ripoblus and Dimok were up to. He had seen no transports, no civilian craft, no capital ships since that last battle. It was probably farfetched, even absurd, to think that the two groups were banding together to fight the Imperials. Not even they would go that far. Decades old hostilities were not mended in a day, or even a week. But still...

"Sir?"

He recognized that voice. General Daran.

"Yes, General?"

Daran peered at him beneath blond hair that always seemed to be rumpled and uncombed. "Are you all right, sir?"

Harkov sighed. "Ever since we arrived in the Sepan system, this whole crew has begun to take an extreme interest in my health. I have no idea why that should be. Am I looking unwell?"

"Well..." Daran trailed off, combed his hair nervously with his fingers. "You have been looking strained lately. Admiral, your health is very important to this campaign. And you know that your crew loves you."

Harkov almost snorted, caught himself at the last moment. Imperial commanders did not snort. Instead, he gave a disbelieving laugh. "_Loves_ is hardly the word for it, general. Obeys, perhaps. Respects. But certainly not 'loves'."

"Oh, you do not think so, Admiral?"

Something in Daran's tone made Harkov take his mind off the cold stars for a moment and focus on the general. "No, I do not. And you do?"

"I have seen the way they look at you when you talk to them. The way they carry out their orders as if the whole world revolves around your approval. The way they smile after you compliment them or how they work twice as hard after a reprimand from you. It is more than respect, Admiral. They want the best for you. I have never seen any crew on any ship do so much for their commander." He paused. "I have never seen a better commander."

Harkov smiled sardonically. "You are trying to make me feel better. Fine. If they love me, then they love me and I am grateful for it. It makes my work that much easier." It was his turn to pause and look thoughtfully at nothing. "But do you think they love me enough?"

Daran caught his meaning. The general's face became closed and wary. "I would take no chances, Admiral."

Harkov nodded to himself. "As to your first question, I do not know. I am feeling rather...morbid today. Must be the weather."

"Morbid." Daran rolled the word around in his mouth, trying out the feel of it. He said, rather cautiously, "Ah, due to the weather, sir, morbid...is a rather strange feeling."

"I would say it would be. I am also trying to figure out what has become of our good friends the Ripoblus and Dimok. Unpleasant thoughts roll through my mind."

"Morbid thoughts, sir?"

Before Harkov could answer, there was a clatter of boots from the command walkway. A bridge duty officer rushed up, saluted. "Admiral, you are wanted at tactical."

Harkov spun on his heel and headed to the tactical crew pit, followed by Daran. He descended into the pit and walked quickly to the chief sensor officer. "What is it, Major?"

"Admiral, I've picked up an object on our present course. It appears to be stationary. At this rate, we should be able to see it in about fifteen minutes."

Harkov leaned close, saw the small blip on the screen. "How far is it now?"

The officer busied himself a moment at the console. "Fifty-five kilometers, sir."

Harkov looked at Daran. "What do you think, General?"

"Space station?"

"That would be my guess. Whatever they are, they won't be friendly." Harkov addressed the officer. "Keep that on line. I want to be notified immediately if anything happens."

"Anything, sir?"

"Anything. I don't want to be caught by surprise. We know how they fight now, and I am not taking any chances."

"Perhaps the admiral is being overly morbid," Daran put in with a small grin.

"Ah...morbid, sir?" The tactical officer was not sure how to take that comment.

"Never mind. Remember, anything, major."

"Yes, sir."

Followed closely by Daran, Harkov left the chief tactical station and began walking slowly around the crew pit, observing crewers at their work. "What do you think now, Daran?"

"It could be anything. Ripoblus, Dimok, smugglers...though I doubt smugglers would bother with a stationary base in the middle of the system."

"I would stake chances on the Dimok."

Daran cast him a curious glance. "Why is that, sir?"

"The Ripoblus and Dimok are at war, General. In war, both sides turn most of their energy to the manufacture or appropriation of weapons. We already know how the Ripoblus acquire their weapons-illegally, of course. If one transport is found smuggling weapons, the chances are that there are more weapons being smuggled in on the Ripoblus side. Are you with me, general?"

"Yes, sir," said Daran cautiously. "I still do not see what you are getting at."

Harkov slowed his pace as he brushed by two senior officers reprimanding a young ensign at his station. "It is really quite simple. Since the Ripoblus are smuggling their weapons, they cannot be using the space station. Therefore, it must be a Dimok weapons lab."

"Why a weapons lab, sir?" Daran was clearly startled by Harkov's conjecture. "Why not a science station, or-"

"How many people do you know of who spare the time or energy to make great scientific advances of knowledge during war? Especially a civil war of this magnitude?"

Daran thought a moment, chewed his lip. "I see, sir." He shook his head admiringly. "Admiral, how you deduced that from-"

He never got to finish. Another duty officer, this time from the com-scan station, came clicking hurriedly over. "Sir, there are two more blips on screen. We just picked them up. They appear to have just arrived and are attacking the first blip that we picked up. Sensors show large bursts of concentrated energy coming from the other two blips in the area."

Before Harkov could reply, there was a shout from the comm station. "Admiral! We're intercepting a transmission from the first object in our flight path."

Harkov quickened his pace and hurried up to the comm stations to the side of the security foyer. "Yes, lieutenant?" he snapped rather impatiently at the closest comm officer in the vicinity.

The lieutenant quickly adjusted the frequencies until the words could be heard above the static, though not clearly. "_-tation Youst requesting assistance. Attention, Imperials-can you help us? Dimok Science Station Youst requesting assistance. Imperials, do you read_?"

Harkov threw a significant glance at Daran, who mouthed: _Science Station?_ to him. Harkov held up one finger, then nodded to the comm officer. "Put me in on a clear channel that both Dimok and Ripoblus can hear." The officer looked puzzled, but adjusted frequencies accordingly. Harkov raised his voice slightly. "Attention, Ripoblus forces. Cease your attack at once!"

There was a high-pitched whine that cut off the grateful Dimok reply. "Jamming," said the comm officer grimly, working the controls. Suddenly, the whine stopped and a cold, whispery Ripoblus voice cut in clearly through the same static. "_Imperials, this is no science station. It's a weapons lab!_"

Daran swung his head around to look at Harkov. "Don't look so surprised, General," said Harkov dispassionately. He was busy calculating his possible options. Probably the only space battle going on in the galaxy right now, and once again he just happened to stop by. "No reply to the Ripoblus," he said finally, raising his voice so that all the communications operators could hear. "Call the _Harpax_. Activate gravity generators now. I want them fully operational by the time we arrive at the battle scene. None of those Ripoblus or Dimok forces need go anywhere. Yellow alert to all captains. Increase speed to two-thirds and put all turbolaser chiefs on standby."

He waited until the messages started to be relayed, then started back over to tactical. "I told you I felt morbid," he commented to Daran. "That's always how I feel just before a storm." 

Bix Harris was in the shower when the yellow alert klaxons began to wail. He grumbled a bit, gave himself a quick splash-over, and jumped out. He could hear the clattering of boots and excited voices as the other pilots in the refresher room hurried outside.

There was a screech of static and then General Daran's voice came over the comm. "All pilots to briefing room now. All pilots to briefing room now."

Bix pulled on his standard pilot's uniform, then hurried out of the refresher into the cooler corridors. Large groups of pilots streamed by, intent on catching the turbolifts. Bix attached himself to the straggling end of one of the groups, silently wondering what this was all about.

"Looking forward to this, Harris?"

Bix looked behind him and saw Harve Tisher striding to catch up with him. Bix slowed his pace, waited until Harve had come up next to him, then noticed that the other pilot looked tired. Harve had dark circles under his eyes and was stifling a yawn.

"You look a little out of commission yourself, Harve."

"Ah, it's nothing. Didn't get to bed until oh five hundred this morning." 

"Five hundred!" Bix looked askance at Harve, who suddenly developed an interest in his perfectly clean fingernails. "Doing what?"

Harve shrugged self-conciously, face guarded. "Oh...talking, I guess," he said evasively.

"With Eln?"

Harve looked even more guarded and shot Bix an uncertain glance, but answered, "Actually, no. I haven't talked to Eln in a while, got things to do."

Bix started to open his mouth, then closed it. Harve's doings were his own affair, and he was not going to question him about it. Instead he said: "Don't fall asleep during the battle." Harve looked relieved that Bix had not pursued the subject.

They caught the next lift and rode it down to the briefing room. Daran had already begun the hurried briefing when they filed in quietly and stood at the back.

"-are bound to be Headhunters waiting out there for you once you launch," Daran was saying. He waved a light-probe over the large moving grid map at the front of the room. The image shifted left to a small red image symbolizing the Protector. A TIE Fighter symbol appeared next to the Star Destroyer. "The Dimok Station-" he waved the probe over a green circular symbol- "is protected by Headhunters as well." Two Headhunter symbols appeared, one green, one blue. Dimok and Ripoblus. "Be sure to carefully ID each Headhunter before you engage, because this time we are only fighting the Ripoblus, not the Dimok. Engage Ripoblus craft only. All Dimok craft are to be ignored unless they start firing on you first, in which case you engage them as well. Understood?"

A chorus of "aye's" filled the room.

Daran nodded in satisfaction. "There are also two capital Ripoblus starships, a modified corvette and a modified frigate. Neither are identified yet, but watch out for them." Two new blue symbols appeared on the map as the Headhunter and TIE Fighter symbols moved close to each other. "Also, be on the lookout for Ripoblus Assault Transports. We have spotted two so far making their way to the Dimok Station. These must be stopped at all costs. No Ripoblus assault transports must be allowed to dock with the station. Instead, our own ATR's will be trying to get through. You must identify each transport carefully or else you might end up destroying our own transports instead of the enemy's. That would not be a pleasant ending to the battle." Another symbol for the assault transport appeared next to the modified frigate. "That is all. To your ships, and good luck."

"What do you think?" muttered Harve as they made it out the door and into the pilot ready room. Bix made no answer. Spotless black pilot flight suits hung upon pegs on the wall. Bix walked quickly to his suit and pulled it on, taking special care as he connected the gas transfer hoses to his helmet and sealed it. TIE Fighters had no life-support system-the flight suit _was_ his life-support. He stuffed his feet into his pressure boots and shoved hands into his gloves.

"Come on, Tisher," he said. "We'll be late." They broke into a run-walk as they reached the turbolift, elbowing aside various techs and droids that blocked the entrance.

The launch bay was hot, crowded, and loud, and Bix felt right at home. He and Cam made their way over to the far launching rack where the Gamma squadron TIE Fighters hung. Bix gestured to the launch technician, who acknowledged by unhooking the refueling cable from his fighter, opening the access hatch, and giving the go-ahead signal.

Bix took a deep breath, tasting the slightly stale air that came in through the breathing filters, ran his hands over his suit one final time, and clambered up onto the top of the fighter. He lowered himself down into the small space within, then reached up and closed the hatch. It banged shut with a hiss and cut him off from the outside world. The silence was eerie after the deafening noise of the outer launch bay. It was as if he was trapped inside the belly of a great creature, curled up in a dark world that would never let him go...He reached over, strapped himself in, then powered up his engines to minimum power. 

There was a muffled clank, and his fighter began to move, pulled forward from the rack by robotic lifters. He felt the T/F being lowered into the launch shaft in the floor of the bay. Darkness...and then his fighter was being tilted forward. He saw stars. For a second, space whirled before his eyes, and then with a slight whoosh, the robotic lifters released his fighter, propelling it away from the _Protector_.

A rush of adrenaline numbed him for a second, then he shook himself, rerouted half power to weapons, increased his speed, and fired up stabilizing thrusters to decrease the wobble of the lightweight craft. Behind him, and in front of him, the rest of Gamma squadron spread themselves out in formation. The cool, crisp voice of Gamma Leader cut in on his transmitter. "All wings report in."

Bix identified himself, then set a smooth course towards the distant beleaguered Dimok station. He adjusted his helmet comm transceiver over his ear, shifted in his seat to get himself a little more comfortable, and pulled power to fire-link his lasers. Opening his threat display, he cycled through, identifying at least three groups of Ripoblus Headhunters hovering above the Dimok stations like hungry birds of prey. He cycled quickly to the station and felt his heart sink. Shields were almost gone and hull was only 88 percent. Shaking his head, he closed the threat display and targeted the closest Headhunter. He had hardly targeted it when it suddenly shifted position on his CMD and came charging towards him.

Quickly he rerouted all power to lasers, checked his forward scanner, wished that his fighter had shields, and then the Z-95s were upon him.

Red bolts flashed past him, barely missing his craft. The space around him was a tangle of lasers, ships, and space debris. He could barely maneuver in the chaos. His target slipped behind him and his OTIA lit up red _and_ yellow. 

"Watch out, Bix!" yelled someone in his ear, forsaking the use of call signs. "Coming in oh-nine-six!"

"I know, I know!" he yelled back. Frantically, he jerked his fighter into a tight spin, barely avoiding another TIE that came screaming in on his portside, while scrolling through his CMD for the missile. He found it, coming at him from behind. He twisted around and took a second to blow it up with his lasers. It exploded into a spectacular fireball.

"Nice shot, Eleven," said the same voice on his transmitter. Bix frowned, then grinned.

"Thanks, Harve," he said. He spiraled out to portside, caught his target Headhunter in his forward scanner, and blew off its unshielded bottom. "There you go," he muttered to it.

"Another wave," someone said. "Coming in fast six-five-one. Watch it, Three!"

"Don't forget the station," warned Gamma Leader. "In formation; let's go." Bix pulled up his threat display again and saw its shields down to one percent. He cursed softly into the transmitter, earning a reprimand from Gamma Leader, and curved into formation, onto a new course for the Dimok station.

His OTIA lit up again and Bix instinctively pulled to starboard to avoid the blasts coming from the other side. So much for that. The other TIE's flashed past. He tried to keep the station in his forward scanner but somehow he turned so it was behind him. He looped around, trying to find it, and saw Tor Sunflier in the crossfire of four Headhunters.

"Gamma Five!" he yelled into his pickup. "Go evasive! I'll cover you."

Apparently Tor had not heard or couldn't hear, because there was no reply.

"Tor?" said Bix. "Tor?" He targeted Tor's fighter and was relieved to find that Tor was still alive. He zoomed towards the fighter, but another TIE was already there.

Harve Tisher came in behind the backs of two of the Headhunters and took one of them out before the pilot even realized what was going on. Tor's crippled fighter took advantage of the confusion and bailed out of there with three of the Z-95's trailing. Another hit sparked on his panel. Bix looked at his CMD. One more shot would finish Tor.

Bix came in on the portside of one of the Z-95s and scored two direct hits on one wing. Harve was yelling for Bix to cover him. Over Harve's frantic requests, Gamma Leader's voice came in, demanding that the three of them get out of there and concentrate on the station.

Bix ignored the request and finished off his Headhunter, then turned towards the station. The transmitter crackled. "Request to head back to the _Protector_," said Tor. His voice was shaky. "I can't give any help the way I am."

"Report back," said Gamma Leader resignedly. "The rest of you, Attack Pattern Omega on those assault transports at nine-four-four." 

Bix targeted the station once again and realized that he was farther away than he had been before. As he angled towards it, he suddenly remembered Harve, back there with the Headhunters, and who hadn't come out...

He swung around to starboard, expecting to see Harve finishing off the rest of the Ripoblus Z-95's. Instead, he saw the other fighter besieged by four Headhunters. Two of them had come out of nowhere. The right solar panel of the craft was warped and twisted and the TIE itself moved slowly and jerkily, though Harve managed to keep it twisting in some bizarre mimic of the classic Alton roll. 

"Harve?" Bix said anxiously. No reply. "Harve? Do you copy?" He listened to the others' jabbering about vectors and coordinates in the background, trying to find that one voice. Nothing.

And then as Bix watched, still frantically trying to bring his fighter around to help, a red laser bolt caught the Harve's small craft squarely on the cockpit. Blue electrical flashes crackled around it for a second, then subsided. A short cry came through the transmitter, an animal cry of pain.

Bix hurtled towards Harve's crippled fighter, targeted the cocky Headhunter who had fired that blast. His HUD lit up green. He squeezed the firing button. Squeezed again. Four bolts of blazing green energy flared as they hit the Headhunter's shielding. The Z-95 burst apart into shards of fiery debris. 

Bix slumped in relief, and then sat bolt upright, frozen, unable to move. Harve's fighter was still rolling, almost lazily, right into the middle of the dense cloud of the explosion.

"No!" Bix screamed hoarsely. He stared unbelievingly as the small fighter hurtled towards the brilliant cloud. "Harve! Pull up! PULL UP!"

The voices of the TIE pilots blared from the TIE Operations stations in one of the crew pits. The long line of controllers sat rigidly, watching com-scan screens and adjusting frequencies, giving orders and warnings, listening to the steady stream of conversation.

"_Watch your flank, Delta Five."_

"Cover me, Dacrin."

"I've got him! I've got him!"

"Cut the chatter, Nine. We're going in. Full throttle. Power it up."

The rightmost controller looked up as Daran passed his station. Daran motioned for him to continue as he bent down, took a look at the screens in front of him. 

"Are all our interceptors launched?"

A burst of sudden jamming sent all the controllers down the line into frantic manipulation of switches. The jamming disappeared, and the controller took a quick look to answer Daran's question. "Negative. One squadron is still on standby. We lost six from Sigma in the first battle. Three of those are temporarily out of commission, the other three destroyed."

"I want the group on standby launched immediately. They are to cover our assault transports."

"Assign every Interceptor a transport to cover," said someone. Daran looked up. Harkov. "There are three transports," the admiral said. "I want all of them well-protected. We can't afford to lose this station."

"Yes, sir."

The intercom buzzed. Daran moved to the side, pressed a button. "Yes?"

"Assault transports are boarded, sir. Waiting for escort."

"Escort launching now."

"Sir."

The intercom clicked off. Daran watched the screens for a moment. "Get Delta Five, Eleven, and Four to cover Gamma Group."

The controller spoke into his pickup. Acknowledgement crackled back.

_"Rilan! Two of them coming in point six-nine!"_

"Request to head back to the Protector_. I can't give any help the way I am." _

"I see them."

"Report back. The rest of you Attack Pattern Omega on those assault transports at nine-four-four."

"Veer starboard, Epsilon Two. I'll cover you."

"Copy that." 

"Gamma Seven, pull up!"

"This is Delta Leader."

"Craer, go evasive! You've picked up three on your tail."

"Negative, I don't see anything."

"Form attack pattern Phi. We're going in, we're going in strong. Stay behind me."

"He's on me!"

"I see them now. Cover me!"

"Thanks, Geoff."

"Coming in on your starboard side at point two-ten."

"This is the VSD _Protector_ calling Delta Squadron," said a controller two seats down. "We've picked up another group of Headhunters at point three-four. They seem to be headed your way."

"_Acknowledged, _Protector_. I see them."_

"Geoff, to port! They're on you!"

"Delta Nine to Twelve. There're two coming in on your port flank. I'm your wing."

"I can't make it!"

"Zeta Three, watch it! You've got one right behind you."

"I'm hit!"

"Rendezvous at nine-nine-oh," said a controller at the far end of the station. The com-scan screen showed a sudden change in frequencies. "Imperial transports coming in."

"_Nine-nine-oh, Gamma Squadron."_

"Gotcha." 

"We've lost Geoff."

"Form up! We're pulling a Drishdyne double-hit on that Ripoblus ATR."

"Copy, Zeta Leader."

"Gamma Three, Seven, Eight, Twelve, close it up. You've almost got him."

Daran turned from the station and walked slowly down the narrow aisle, keeping an ear open for trouble from the Imperial transports. They should be on their way by now.

Eln Terra was making a pretty good job of this battle. The Headhunters were a joke. He almost laughed as he finished off one after the other, squeezing his firing trigger slowly and evenly. Where did these people train? On simulators? One thing he would make sure of when the Empire annexed this system: they'd need better pilots. No show of force would deter the Rebels when they saw this lousy flying.

The craft he was chasing exploded and he targeted an assault transport making a run for the station. Two shots, four...

"I'm hit!" Gamma Three. A pause. "I'm all right."

_"This is General Daran_,_"_ came the voice over the transmitter. _"Watch out for those Ripoblus assault transports. Squadron Gamma, go after the enemy. Our own transports are launching now. Squadron Delta, cover them and watch your back. Five more fighters coming in from that modified frigate_._"_

"Concentrate all fire on those assault transports!" Gamma Leader's voice was curt. Eln could imagine him strapped into the small cockpit of his fighter, that impassive face under the helmet as cold as ever, firing his lasers with clipped, accurate precision. "None of them must be allowed to get to the station. Reform attack pattern Omega at two-eight-two."

Eln smiled. "Copy, Gamma Leader. Gamma Four en route."

He leaned back, enjoying the view as he flew in close towards the transport. War was a game. All a game. He lived for it, lived for the pounding in his blood every time he scored a hit, gloried in the freedom of space and the heady sensation of _feeling_ the stars. 

He adjusted his controls, then turned onto a course on Gamma Nine's starboard flank. The two of them began firing on the clumsy Ripoblus transport from portside. They were soon joined by Gamma Ten and Gamma Seven, coming in under them. The transport turned slightly, preparing to fire on them while still heading towards the station.

There was a shock wave and a screech and the rest of Gamma squadron arrived, letting go all at once with concentrated fire on the transport's underside. The transport wavered, exploded. 

Somebody whooped over the speaker, and Eln swung towards another transport, ignoring the stupid Headhunter behind him that was trying to score a direct hit on him. It kept on until someone behind him silenced it with rapid laser fire. Moments later, Gamma Eight came into view, pouring firepower into the transport.

"Good shooting, Axi," he said, keeping his tone light.

"Thank you, Gamma Four," she said icily.

He was about to make a clever retort, tell her she should lighten up. She had always seemed especially wary of him. He didn't understand. Sure, he liked women, but that didn't mean-

Suddenly, he jerked upright in his seat as a hoarse voice came over the intercom. "Cover me! I'm hit! Cover me! Eln? Cam? Bix? Where are you?"

"Harve," Eln whispered. He turned his fighter so hard it wobbled and spun out of balance before he could regain control. He heard Gamma Leader, demanding that Harve get over to help with the transport. Eln's anger flared. How dare Calys treat him like that? Harve was in danger! He could be dying.

Eln rerouted all power to engine, urging his craft on. He could see on his scopes that Harve was about gone. One more shot, perhaps not even that, and they would lose him. "Hang on, Harve," he called into his pickup. "I'm coming." There was no reply.

"Harve?" said a voice that after a moment Eln recognized as Bix Harris's, Gamma Eleven. "Harve, do you copy?" Harve didn't answer, but Eln could see his fighter doing a slow spin to evade pursuit from the other four Z-95's. Something wrong with the engine. Harve's fighter suddenly sparked blue as a blast hit it, and Eln groaned, expecting the worse. But after a minute the electric sparking subsided, although there was no way the TIE could have survived that last shot.

As he came closer, Eln saw Bix's fighter swing around and begin firing on the far Headhunter. The Headhunter swerved, faked to port and then did a double turnaround Traklis maneuver, but Bix's last two lasers caught it square on the nose, turning it into a spectacular fireball. Eln blew out a breath, and then saw Harve's fighter, spiraling, spiraling into the depths of the craft's debris. 

"No!" Bix yelled. Eln watched, petrified. "Harve! Pull up! PULL UP!" And as if in slow motion, the TIE made one last slow spin and vanished. There was a smaller explosion deep within the cloud, and then nothing.

"NO!" Eln shrieked, sped closer. All power to lasers. Fire. Fire. Explosions far and distant. The cockpit seemed to pressing in on him. He felt like a powder keg. He wanted the universe to die. _No! Not Harve. You can't take Harve!_ Rage erupted like a molten lava from a volcano, bursting from inside to build up in the stale air of the life-support suit.

Harris! Harris was the one who had caused Harve's death, caused the explosion. Eln's fingers twitched on the fire control. He made a wordless sound in his throat, like a low animal growl. He fired.

He heard Bix's cry of surprise as if from a great distance. He fired again, but somehow the other TIE eluded him. Screaming, his throat raw and sore, Eln kept firing, not knowing, not caring. He saw the blue sparks dance over Harris's fighter. 

A screech of metal passing close to metal. A laser blast, close behind. His craft jolted, once, twice, and then went still. No movement. Frustrated, Eln pounded the controls in front of him. Nothing. All dead. He slumped in his seat and let out a cry of rage and grief.

Bix's transmitter crackled, finally, after what seemed like a million years. He had managed to stabilize his craft, and sat waiting, dead in space. His hands were shaking. He glanced at Eln's fighter, the other pilot's cry still echoing through his mind. What could have possessed Eln? He knew about his temper, but- 

He heard Gamma Leader's voice, calling on a broad spectrum Imperial channel. Something must have happened to the sub-space connection because the words barely came in through the static. "Gamma Leader to VSD _Protector_."

_"Yes, Gamma Leader. Do you require assistance?"_

"I need a tow immediately for TIE Fighter Gamma Four, coordinates two-two-six, and Gamma Eleven, coordinates two-five-three."

A pause. "_Tugs should be out shortly, Commander Calys_._"_

"Gamma Four is hereby declared unfit for duty and is to be taken to the detention level immediately."

The controller's shock was evident in his reply. _"Sir-?"_

"Those are my orders, Lieutenant." Calys' voice was harder than usual, an iceberg, frozen and immovable.

There was second pause, longer than the first, and then a new voice. Bix froze. The Admiral!

_"Commander Calys, what is your justification for having a member of your squadron arrested?"_

"He turned on another member of my squadron, sir. Gamma Eleven." Calys' voice grew bitter. "I'm sure we can discuss this at a later date, Admiral."

_"I see_._"_ Harkov's voice gave the indication that he did not see at all. He seemed to have turned and was saying something to somebody on the _Protector_, because Bix could not make out the words. _"Tow is being arranged, Commander. I expect a full report_._"_

"Yes, sir."

The channel clicked shut and Bix was left, hanging there in space, with stars all about him. He thought about Harve and shivered, closed his eyes. All his fault. 

Eln had been right to turn on him. He had tried to be a hero, help Harve, and had only caused his death.

__

Don't fall asleep during the battle. 

He smiled bitterly. Sleep was one less problem for Harve now. Slumping down in his seat, he half-heartedly checked to see that his oxygen supply was adequate, and then drifted off. Wondered what the others were doing. The static was loud in his transmitter and he could barely hear. He tried to look for the station, but it was too far away and all his scopes were out.

And then in the static of the background he heard a voice. "This is Delta Leader to VSD _Protector_. Dimok Station Youst captured. Ripoblus routed." A silence.

"Mission accomplished."


	12. Eleven: The Rebellion

__

This is a work of fan fiction and all canon characters, scenes, and concept are the property of LucasArts. Original characters and plot property of Gerald Tarrant.

Please do not repost this fanfiction without permission.  
lordofmerentha@yahoo.com 

* * *

****

Eleven: The Rebellion

The pilot quarters' corridor was still and deserted after hours, after the exhaustion and the pouring out of grief and rage after a battle, after the showers and the dragging feet and the haunted eyes had vanished into their quarters or the hangar bay. The wall lights gleamed on the gray metal floor and the hum of the air conditioning was loud in the stillness. Doorways in the gray walls stood dark and shadowed and lifeless.

One of the doors slid open with a hiss and a dark head peered out furtively, checking both sides of the deserted corridor before carefully stepping out with a click of bootheels. The door hissed shut, giving only a brief impression of the small but neat standard crew room inside.

There was no need for her to be so secretive, Axi Quarran told herself angrily. None at all. It was not as if it were an offense to be out in the corridor. Even at this time of "night" there were always night crewmen traipsing in an out of their quarters to fetch datacards or sneak a quick drink in between shifts. It was all right.

But there was an itch of fear crawling up her shoulderblades and she kept glancing behind her, as if she felt unseen eyes on her, monitering her every move. She slowed her pace and forced herself to keep her head from swiveling behind her again. Her boots were loud and echoing on the polished corridor floor.

_No! Nothing's wrong. Act normal_

No, wait. Those were not just her boots...Her heart speeded up and she found herself gasping for breath. Two stormtroopers appeared around the bend in front, those black and white armored faces seemingly looking at her accusingly. Her heart pounded. She just knew they would come up to her, grab her arms, ask her what she was doing.

But they just nodded to her and paid her not a second glance as they continued down the corridor. The clank of their boots faded around another corner and Axi leaned against the wall, gasping for breath. What was the matter with her? Jumping at shadows, frightened of mere stormtroopers. Well, so what that she had always been a little scared of stormtroopers? She had never been this scared of them. Not before. It was Harve's death. It must be. 

Harve had been a good friend, one of her only friends aboard the Protector, or in the Imperial Navy, as a fact. She was not good at making friends. There were many aboard the ship that offered her their friendship, but if they were men Axi had seen the leering smiles and knew what they were thinking, that a pretty, young woman on her own would make a good catch. She'd ignored them, but that hadn't gained her many friends or even acquaintances.

She had never understood the mindset of the Empire against women. Time and time again she had proved herself to be just as good a pilot, maybe better, than many of her superiors, but had never been promoted higher than flight officer. The highest ranking woman aboard the Protector was a major in communications, but she had never operated the channels on the bridge. Maybe the Empire thought that it would be a bad first impression for many dignitaries to be greeted on the comm by a woman. Whatever the reason, Axi had no hopes for promotion anytime soon, and she had sunk deeper into herself.

It was Harve who had rescued her. She had seen him before, but never talked to him. She had never really talked to any members of her squadron in person except for Commander Calys, Gamma Leader, and he frightened her. He was as cold and frigid as she, even more so, and those light eyes under the even lighter hair seemed to track her every thought, like the unseen eyes of the stormtroopers. She had come away from their brief conversation shaking inside, though her normal imperious self outside. 

But Harve was different. That tanned skin, dark eyes and bluff, craggy face reminded her of her brother. Harve had come up to her one day as she was sitting in the hangar bay by herself and started a conversation. She had ignored him at first, but gradually let herself be drawn in, intrigued by this man who wanted to know her for who she was.

She was not in love with him by any means, nor he with her. He had a fiancé back on Coruscant. But they had become friends and they had talked, about many things. Home, family. Growing up on different worlds. Foreign jokes. Books, music, art. Science, philosophy. Military strategy. The Rebellion.

It was the last that had changed both their lives. They had been fighting the Rebellion for years: Harve for ten years, Axi for six. She had never thought about it really before. To her, it was made up of a bunch of ragtag rabble hopelessly squabbling with their government, unwilling to settle down comfortably and be happy. She had protested to Harve when he had told her differently, that they were fighting for freedom. _They have freedom!_ she had said. _They're just too stubborn to accept that the Empire will care for them. They want to do everything themselves and are being killed because of their stubbornness._

And Harve had said, _That's what the Empire wants you to think._

That had caught Axi by surprise. After Harve had gone she sat and thought about herself, her life, her beliefs. Was this a conclusion she had made herself or was she become only an unwitting puppet? Had she been brainwashed into thinking what the Empire wanted her to think?

In the weeks that followed that conversation, Axi kept her eyes open. Things that she had passed over before, things that she'd told herself time and time again were normal, she now found that she couldn't pass over any longer. The status of women within the Empire. The way some officers poked fun at other races with crude jokes. The way they spoke of killing as if it were some kind of sport to be played for fun. The way they spoke of life as if it were nothing. And she had told Harve, _You were right. _

And then last night, she had learned something shocked her to the very core of herself...

They were in Harve's room. It was late, three or four in the "morning," but Axi needed to talk to him, to let out her frustration. And Harve understood.

He paced around the room, picking up random objects from his desktop, his dresser, then putting them back down absently, his eyes fixed on her. "You see now, Axi, don't you? The Empire's cruelty is something I can't condone personally. I won't compromise my morals to their level. And you shouldn't either."

She had already reached that conclusion, and she had already found a solution. "We need to leave, Harve. We can't stay here! There must be some way we can escape, maybe to the Rebellion, wherever it is now..."

Harve smiled with a tinge of fatigue. "That's the problem, Axi. No one knows where it is. I'm not that well connected with any Rebels, and the others on board don't have a clue, either."

The room was silent. She stared at him, stunned. "Others on board..." Her jaw dropped. "Harve! There are others on board? Other Rebels?"

Harve laughed in disbelief. "Where have you been, woman?"

She glared at him, her mind still dazed. He held up his hands. "Sorry. I promised you I wouldn't call you that. Axi, have you been deaf to all I've been telling you? Yes, there are others on board."

"You never told me that!"

"I implied. And anyway, I'd never tell you flat outright before I knew for sure you wanted to join and weren't going to lie to me."

She had stood up and turned, but now spun back around to face him. "Lie to you?"

"There are people on this ship who would try to find out which people are thinking about joining the Rebellion and then turn us all over to the Admiral."

Axi sat down hard on his bed, silent, then said,"I never thought about that."

"I believe you. And I never thought you would lie. But I had to make sure you were on our side."

She went over to him where he stood against the wall and gripped his hand. "I am with you."

He smiled again, the old easy smile she was so used to. "Back to the Rebellion, no one knows for sure where it is. Not on Yavin anymore, that's for sure. But there are people on board who can help you if you want to talk. The password is 'Therodrone Gildlash.' Just say that and if they're with the Rebellion, they'll know what you're talking about."

Axi glared at him again, mind finally starting to catch up. "Right. Thanks for telling me now. Of all the time you've known me-"

Harve dropped down beside her. "Axi, I'm sorry. But in times like these you have to be cautious. Anyone could be an enemy."

She sighed. "I guess you're right. I'm sorry." 

He smiled at her. "No problem. I'd be in shock too. It's hard, especially now, to get caught up in something like this."

She fidgited with the bed covers, mulling this new information over in her mind, realizing that she had better start getting used to being overdosed with surprises at a moment's notice. Wondering…

"Wait. Harve. You tell me there're other people on the ship, and then clam up. Who? I have no idea. I can't just walk up to some unknown person and say the password."

"Others? Oh, the Protector's swarming with them. The unique thing about the Protector, Axi, is that there are almost no hard-core Imperials serving on it. Except for people like Captain Zeldiri, of course, but most of it's all comprised of people like you and me, who haven't given a thought to the Empire till now." He looked thoughtful. "I wonder why that is?"

"Harve! I need names, not philosophies."

"You really want to know?"

"Harve!"

"I'm just playing with you, Axi." Staring hard at her. "I'll give you names. Because I trust you. And I hope I'm not mistaken." 

She took his hard hands in hers. "Harve…would I ever betray you? You're the only friend I have."

He let her squeeze his hands gently before he removed them, stared up at the ceiling in concentration and ticked off names on his fingers. "These people I think you'll recognize. Edar S'rati, Gamma Three. Commander Bryon. Ravin Fingar, the stormtrooper commander. Keyan Ceandl, Gamma Seven. D'lan Ril, Gamma Twelve. General Attari. Ashran Tal, Delta Leader. Dieron Travers, Delta Five. Ben Calys, Gamma Leader."

"Ben Calys?" Axi breathed in disbelief. "Gamma Leader is a Rebel?"

"So are we, if you don't forget."

"But I never suspected...I mean, he's so..."

"Cold and hard? So are you around other people. Axi, the Rebellion is alive and breathing aboard this ship. It only needs a spark for the explosion to occur. Remember the password."

"Therodrone Gildlash."

"You got it, girl. Axi, I'm counting on you."

She had turned to go, had her hand on the door release, but his words startled her. "Me? For what?"

He came to the door. "Axi, you're one of my best friends."

She smiled shyly, embarrassed by the compliment. She had never had many friends, almost none aboard the _Protector_, and Harve was someone who she had desperately wanted to have like her for who she was. 

"Axi."

His voice was deep, sad. Startled, she looked at him. "Axi, I've got no one. My whole family consists of die-hard Imperials. Even Ricara, my financé. They'd kill me if they knew what I am. I thought I'd have to do this alone."

"What about the others aboard?"

He looked away. "They...yeah, I guess they feel like I do, but...oh, I don't know. They're so distant, like they're all involved in some other world. They don't understand. Their families...most of them aren't connected with the Empire at all."

Axi felt a shiver run through her. She had never thought about that.

"Don't worry, Harve. Don't worry."

He didn't look at her. "I tell myself that every day. But I've been worrying too long to stop now."

"Harve-"

"You'd better go. It's late."

"You're right." She pressed the door release, stepped into the empty corridor.

"Axi!" he called softly down the corridor as she walked away. She turned.

"Remember what I told you. Be strong."

_Be strong._

Axi felt tears in her eyes and she roughly pushed herself away from the wall. No. She would not cry. Harve was dead and there was nothing she could do about it. She had been independent before she had met him. Surely she could always be that way again. But something about him had touched her, made her crave human companionship, someone who understood. And with Harve dead, all her dreams vanished into thin air and she was back where she had started. A woman, alone on a starship, with no one.

Resolutely, she started walking again, resisting the urge to look backwards. The corridor was still eerily silent. But she walked on. She knew she had to keep walking or else she would falter and fold. She had to keep walking. It was hard, but she kept on as Harve's last words echoed in her ears.

_Remember what I told you. Be strong._

Ben Calys's quarters were hot and stuffy, but Colonel Ravin Fingar barely noticed to sweat trickling down his face and disappearing beneath his body armor. He had just gotten off duty and had intended to go take a well-earned shower, but something had drawn him to Calys's quarters. He needed to talk with Calys. It had been a long time.

He had found Edar S'rati in there already, and had almost laughed at the expression on his face as Calys opened the door. He had still been in full armor and no doubt S'rati had thought the game was up. It had been funny, that expression on S'rati's face when he had removed his stormtrooper helmet.

S'rati hadn't thought it was funny, though, and had given Fingar a piece of his mind as the trooper had calmly moved to Calys's bed and sat down. Calys had stood there watching, the handsome face under the too-light hair as cold and impassive as ever. Fingar had watched him back as S'rati scolded, trying to figure out what was going on inside.

Not that he was afraid of Calys. He was, after all, stormtrooper commander. Commander of elite troops, answering only to the Emperor himself. A great honor, and a position that required the absence of fear. He had done well over the years at eliminating that blind fear. Fear was the downfall of the soldier, what caused him to break and run or make irrational decisions. That was something he could not afford. Many were afraid of Calys, he knew, but he was not one of them, just curious at what Calys was always thinking. The man was as closed and emotionless as a trooper inside stormtrooper armor and helmet. It did not really matter what Calys thought, but the man was so stony he _should _have been a stormtrooper.

It was, in part, his rank as trooper commander that had changed his views on the Empire and the Rebellion. He had served seven years on the Outer Rim as Trooper 1046, subduing planets full of all kinds of aliens: alien warriors, nomadic tribes, farming communities, scholars. He had never quite understood the Imperial mindset of using force, but he was good at it, apparently, because they had just kept on promoting him. 

He enjoyed the promotions, but as he rose in the ranks and become more and more of a commander, he'd begun to have second thoughst about his decision. What, after all, was right about slaughtering helpless civilians like animals? He understood the reasons behind hunting down Rebels, or thought he did, but civilians? What did they ever do? It was cruel. And the strangest thing about it was that his superiors did not seem to care, indeed seemed to glory in the sickening massacres carried out by their troops.

He tried not to care; after all, the first thing drilled into all stormtroopers at their first training was not to question orders. Serve the Emperor. That was all. Nothing about right or wrong. Nothing _was_ right or wrong here. If the Emperor said it, it must be right. Stormtroopers do not think, said the commander to Trooper 1046. They simply obey. So he had obeyed, but it was becoming harder and harder every time he heard the death screams of innocent children or watched the meager homesteads of weeping captives being burned to the ground.

After his seventh year, Fingar had had enough. He was tired of the blood, tired of the gore, tired of the slaughter. He was tired of being Trooper 1046. He was Ravin Fingar, and he would be treated as like the man he was, not simply as the killing machine he feared he would become. So he made up his mind to leave the Rim.

He had been highly enough placed that he could request a change in assignment. High Command thought it was a good idea and signed him onto the _Protector_ as commander there. He had been relieved, thinking it was all over. But the _Protector_ was the same. Cold Imperial thinking, butchering whole planets because it was orders. Orders were orders and there was nothing he or anyone could do to change that. Even Admiral Harkov, who was the first Imperial commander Fingar had known who seemed to have a spark of humanity in him.

Then he had met Calys and that had changed his life. The Rebellion. Once he'd thought of it as the enemy, now it was his salvation. He'd found people on board the Protector who shared his views, wanted to stop the senseless destruction and murdering of innocent worlds. When they'd heard about Alderaan, that had been the spark that had lit the fire. Calys and a few others began recruiting in earnest from their pilots, while the regular troops went searching among the crew. Fingar himself kept his eyes open from some sign from his men, though it was unlikely that they would entrust their feared commander with information of that nature.

They had to move with great caution, for fear of one careless move ruining their cover and ending it there and then, before they could escape. Or, more than escape. Fingar himself was leaning more and more towards whole scale treachery; taking over the _Protector_ altogether. It would be a tough job, but after his years on the Outer Rim, Fingar was ready for anything.

S'rati finished his tirade and glared at Calys. "Well, Ben? Aren't you going to say something?"

Calys shrugged. "No. Why?"

"Blast it, Ben, have you heard what I've been saying? It's getting too dangerous. We're too big. We have to move soon or word'll leak out and there goes my career."

"Calm down, S'rati," Fingar said lazily. "Who cares about your career?"

"_I_ care. Unlike some people."

"It will be all right, Edar, I think," Calys said carefully, looking curiously at Fingar. "Namely, I am worried about losing some. We lost a couple of our number yesterday in the battle."

Fingar sat up. "We did? Who?"

"Namely Ravell O'Hany and Harve Tisher. Pilots."

"Ravell O'Hany?" S'rati said. "Who's that?"

"Zeta squadron. Aboard the _Akaga_."

"Oh."

_Ravell O'Hany?_ He had been one of first Rebels aboard the _Akaga_! To lose him now...Fingar opened his mouth, started to say something, and the buzzer sounded. "Sounds like someone's at the door, Calys," he said instead.

Calys frowned. The buzzer came again. "I'm not expecting anyone. But then I wasn't expecting you, either, Fingar. Better put on your helmet and come with me. That should be sufficient to scare off anyone who wants to come in now."

"Right." Fingar slipped on his helmet and followed Calys to the door of the small room. The air was stale and sweaty inside the helmet and the hiss of the opening door was muffled. There was a brief silence as he stared at the person outside the door and then he began to laugh.

It was a girl. Dressed in a pilot's uniform with dark hair swinging just above her shoulders, she was skinny and short. She had looked scared before, but now she looked terrified at his laughter. Fingar could understand. There weren't many laughing stormtroopers around these days. Calys threw him a look and he quieted, though still wanting to laugh. What was this girl doing here?

"Good morning, Axi," Calys said.

"Axi?" Fingar wondered. How did Calys know this girl?

"Gamma Eight, Fingar. Don't ask so many questions," Calys snapped at him, not looking around. Fingar heard, suddenly, the echo of his old commander. _Don't ask questions, 1046. Orders are not to be questioned._

He blinked, returning to the present. The girl still stood at the doorway, her eyes fixed on Calys.

"What do you need, Axi?"

Fingar still wanted to laugh. This girl, a pilot? She didn't look old enough to cross the street by herself, much less pilot a fighter. Obviously, she knew her way around, though. She licked her lips, then stepped into the room. Calys stepped aside, puzzled, as she hit the door release and the door slammed shut. She looked up at him, then at Fingar.

"You are Ravin Fingar?" she asked.

Fingar started. It was odd, this girl who did not even know him, addressing him not as Trooper 1046, but by his real name. Odd, but strangely pleasant. He nodded.

The girl seemed to think about this, then said in a low, hesitant voice. "Therodrone Gildlash."

Fingar stiffened, his hand to his blaster. Calys's face looked like it had been frozen into a glacier. "Where did you hear that?" he snapped.

"Harve Tisher," she replied, now calm.

Calys and Fingar exchanged glances. For a moment, Fingar could swear that Calys, the stoic, unfeeling Ben Calys, was startled. The girl looked at Fingar curiously, and he removed his helmet with a sigh.

"I have come to the right place, haven't I?" she demanded, angry now.

Calys sighed, shook his head. "Of all the people-Yes, you have." He moved away from the door, motioned for her to follow. S'rati had stood as well, staring at her. Calys motioned to an unoccupied corner of the floor. "Sit down, Gamma Eight, and start from the beginning."

The fact that it was four-o'clock in the "morning" did not seem to faze any of the crewmembers scurrying about on the bridge of the Nebulon-B Frigate _Akaga_. People pushed, shoved, shouted politely, all trying to give the same information all at once despite the warnings of officers who were trying to keep everything under control.

It was the bridge, Captain Disroit thought wryly. Too small. He stood at the back on an overhanging catwalk over the turbolift, watching the activity. Consoles and stations lined the walls and squeezed themselves to fit on one of the console islands in the middle of the floor. Holographic displays rotated above the consoles and colorful light maps and controls blinked on the dark gray walls. There needed to be a frigate with a bridge like a Star Destroyer. Like the _Protector_, at least. Roomy, spacious, quiet. But then, the ship would have to be as big as a Star Destroyer. Frigates were simply too small altogether.

Disroit smiled ruefully. He was getting too old for this, yet he enjoyed it. Not the fighting, the times in between the fighting. Times like this, when everyone was just like one big family, with their petty squabbles and frantic information processing to get done.

The noise level rose. He was getting soft. In earlier times he would have been down there making sure no one spoke above a whisper. But now, who cared, really? As long as the job got done. 

The noise level rose again. Disroit tapped the bridge intercom. "Attention, this is the captain. All noise will cease immediately!"

The noise ceased and everyone stared up at him. "Thank you," he continued. "As of now it is oh four hundred hours, Coruscant time. I expect a little less noise at this hour in the morning. Also, Admiral Harkov expects all battle reports written and filed by oh seven hundred hours, Coruscant time. As a slight reminder to keep you on task. And no, there will be no morning drill this morning."

He clicked the intercom off and the crewers slowly turned back to their work. Disroit continued along the catwalk in the silence broken only by the humming of monitors and the vibration of the _Akaga's_ engines.

It was ludicrous, really, this war. The Emperor, pretending to be the great peacemaker, but in reality just wanting to get his hungry hands on any stray wisps of power he could find. In Disroit's opinion, they should just pull out and let the Ripoblus and Dimok fight it out to their own conclusion.

That was Harkov's opinion as well, Disroit was sure, though the admiral had never said anything regarding the conflict. He was noble, the admiral, operating on his own high-moraled code of honor. A code of honor that no longer existed in the Empire, and that one day would be just outdated enough to get him killed. Disroit had urged him again and again to leave, to just go. But Harkov would not or could not listen. He was too afraid of the unknown. No, not afraid of the unknown, but afraid to admit that he had been wrong all these years. Afraid to cast away the mask he had worn for so long and to show his face to the light.

Disroit shook his head. He was growing philosophical in his old age. 

Boots on the catwalk scattered his thoughts and he looked to the side to see who was coming, praying it wasn't one of the higher ranking officers come to call him in for another meeting. But it was only one of the young bridge duty officers carrying a datapad. "Casualties, sir," he said in a low voice, half-whispering.

Casualties. Disroit winced as he took the pad, scrolling down through the list. It was as he had feared. Only five percent of those pilots who had been wounded had survived. "Shielding," he said softly.

"Sir?"

"Shielding, officer. TIE Fighters need shields."

"Uh, yes, sir." The duty officer looked uncertainly back at him. Disroit handed the pad back to him.

"Thank you, officer."

The officer saluted, left the catwalk just as another deck officer rushed up to him, opened his mouth.

"Incoming call from the _Protector_."

Disroit nodded, walked rapidly down the catwalk to the communications consoles. The comm officer saw him coming, punched the call. "Audio or visual, Captain?"

"I'll take visual."

Captain Zeldiri's face appeared on the viewscreen. Disroit's heart sank.

"Captain," said Disroit.

_"Captain Disroit,"_ said Zeldiri with his customary sneer. _"I am pleased to inform you that we have finally been able to begin crushing the insolent Ripoblus."_

"Oh," said Disroit.

_"Not crushing, Captain,"_ came Harkov's calm voice from offscreen._ "We are not going to crush anyone."_

Disroit could hear snickers from around the bridge, both on the _Protector_ and the _Akaga_. He kept a straight face.

Zeldiri's face darkened. _"Transmit all battle data at oh seven hundred hours mark, Disroit_," he said, his voice thick with anger. "_File all reports immediately_." The screen went dark suddenly.

The comm officer whistled softly through his teeth. Disroit himself could not help a smile, but the smile faded quickly as he thought of Harkov.

_Be careful, Admiral_. _You have powerful enemies_. _Be careful_.


	13. Twelve: Looking for Reasons

__

This is a work of fan fiction and all canon characters, scenes, and concept are the property of LucasArts. Original characters and plot property of Gerald Tarrant.

Please do not repost this fanfiction without permission.  
lordofmerentha@yahoo.com 

* * *

****

Twelve: Looking for Reasons

There was the sudden pull and whine as the shuttle leapt out of hyperspace and into real space. Sublight engines kicked on, hummed. Starlines coalesced into pinpoint stars and a blue-green planet.

The comm clicked. "Unidentified ship, state your name and business."

The pilot keyed in the clearance code while the copilot flipped the switch to broadcast their identification signal. He leaned forward and spoke into the small comm. "Imperial shuttle A34-22 requesting clearance for landing, clearance code Blue."

There was silence, then a crackle from the comm. "Shuttle will be cleared when we have confirmation of your code transmission. Stand by."

The shuttle waited as the planet grew in diameter through the viewport. The copilot wiped his sweaty hands surreptitiously on his trousers. The pilot glanced over at him, smiling sickly. "You too?"

"Yeah. I feel like I'm going to throw up or something."

The pilot nodded. "I know what you mean." The comm light came back on. "Hang on, I think we're cleared."

The comm crackled again. "Imperial shuttle A34-22, you are cleared for landing in docking bay sixty-eight. Standby for tractor beam."

"Acknowledged," said the pilot, flipping off the comm and the identification signal and guiding the shuttle in. "Here we go."

Through the viewport, the blue-green planet grew larger, and a lighted orbiting station came into view. Several Star Destroyers hung motionless around the station and the unfinished skeletons of others floated some distance away. An almost completed Nebulon B-Frigate with worker droids and ships buzzing around its underside drifted on the other side. Smaller platforms orbited the large station. The pilot's hand moved on the throttle lever, gradually slowing the shuttle down as it approached the station that now loomed huge on the screen. 

"Big," said the copilot, with admiration.

"Not as big as the Death Star," said the pilot. "Start landing cycle now. Shut down all auxilliary power."

The copilot punched in a rapid code series and the engines purred slowly. There was a short jolt as the shuttle was caught in the tractor beam and then was pulled rapidly towards the station and one of the growing mouths that was the docking bay.

The shuttle glided across the mouth of the bay, settled gracefully to the floor. The pilot hit the last series of buttons, shutting the shuttle down completely, and hit the ramp release. It hissed down in a shower of gases. "Good skies," said the copilot.

The pilot looked out the viewport, raised his eyebrows. Rows upon rows of Imperial stormtroopers stood at attention down both sides of the slick black floor of the docking bay. Facing the shuttle were three green-uniformed men, their faces looking sickly and pale in the lights of the bay.

"Good luck to them," said the pilot, unstrapping himself from the seat

"Yeah," said the copilot fervently. "I know how they feel."

The stormtroopers stood silent, unmoving, unfeeling behind their thick black-and-white helmets. Vader looked around as he disembarked, felt a faint contempt. Stormtroopers were a waste of money. Stormtrooper armor, anyway. 

One of the three green-uniformed men stepped forward formally. He had a mousey face and a small neat moustache over his upper lip. He swallowed nervously. "Greetings Lord Vader. It is an honor to have you with us."

"Thank you, Colonel," Vader said, sweeping past him, black cape billowing. "I commend you on your hard work these past months."

That was surely unexpected, for there was surprise and relief on the face of the three men as they hurried to catch up with him. The stormtroopers stood there, watchful. "Thank you, Lord Vader," the colonel said. "We always do the very best in our work, of course."

"Of course," Vader said, his voice gracious, with the faintest hint of a dangerous edge. "When may I see my ship?"

The colonel hedged. "Ah...there are still a few minor things, lord, before it is ready. Only a few. It should take only a few hours more. I am sure you would like to rest after your long journey."

Vader almost smiled inside his helmet. A few minor things. If he knew Imperial bureaucracy, that would mean a wait of almost two days. Well, he could wait. He was not a patient man, but he would wait. He would humor the personnel of Kuat Drive Yards for now.

"Very well," he said. "I will be in my private quarters. Notify me when the minor constructions are finished."

"Yes, lord," the official stammered, obviously noting the warning note in Vader's voice. Very good.

He turned to go, signaled to two of the stormtroopers to follow him. Useless though they were, stormtroopers did have a talent for inspiring fear. Himself with two of them following should be enough to keep everyone else in the station a good distance away.

"Ah, Lord Vader?" called the colonel after him.

He turned. "Yes, colonel?"

"We were...ah...wondering. What would be the name of this ship?"

Vader did smile this time, painful though it was. The name. He had decided on it just last night, thinking in his meditation chamber. It had to be a fearsome name. Awe-inspiring. A name that symbolized the invinciblity, the cruelty, the dread that surrounded him. A name that symbolized him.

"The name of the ship," Vader said, "will be the Executor."

He strode away, not missing the look of sick horror on the colonel's face. Behind him, the rows of stormtroopers stood motionless, shining white, silent, inhuman.

The snow swirled, billowed, hiding the landscape. Crystals of it stung Luke's face behind his scarf and goggles. He blinked, turned his tauntaun around. Nothing here. There was never anything here. He placed the last sensor and squinted. Through the blowing snow, he could barely see the outline of the third marker. He was right, then. Time to be heading back.

He unwound his scarf from his face, punched in the code to his wrist transmitter. "Echo Three to Echo Base."

"Echo Base here," a crisp female voice said.

"This is Commander Skywalker. I've placed my sensors and am heading back in."

"Great. Find anything, sir?"

Luke snorted. "Are you kidding?"

There was a hint of laughter in the controller's voice. "I didn't think so, sir. We'll see you shortly."

"Right. Echo Three out."

His tauntaun snorted, head trembling. "Easy, girl," Luke said, replacing the scarf. Boy, it was cold. A far cry from Tatooine, where there were sandstorms instead of snowstorms. "We're leaving."

He gave the tauntaun its head, and with a bleat it bounded across the snowscape. The wind lessened, died, and all of a sudden the landscape cleared. Sunlight danced on the smooth ice plain, sparkling on crystals in the air. Luke sucked in his breath, took in the breathtaking sight. Sunsets on Tatooine were never like this.

He reached the first marker, turned towards base. Another day, another sunset. How routine. Not that he had enjoyed the fighting, by any means, but that would have given him something to do. He had his X-wing, but only a fool would go joyriding out in space with the asteroid field surrounding Hoth and Imperial sensors out who knew where. Han would probably do something like that, but not him.

Han. Han, who still hadn't come back. Luke had just about given up hope for him, and he knew Leia had too. He could see it in her eyes. Han's absence was a terrible strain on her, even more than on him. There was something there, Luke knew, because every time he mentioned Han, Leia would get this look on her face that he couldn't quite figure out, as if she was desperate for him to come back but yet she didn't want him to. He would give anything to figure it out, but again, he would never intrude into her privacy. Come to think of it, he wasn't sure how he felt about her, anymore. Too many things. Too complicated.

He saw the ice cliff of the south entrance in the distance, urged his tauntaun on. His nose was numb despite the scarf and goggles and he could hardly wait to get inside. The tauntaun sped across the snow, probably as eager as he was. His stomach rumbled and his legs hurt from gripping the animal. The cave grew nearer and the tauntaun slowed as Luke pulled back on the reins, slowing it to a walk as they passed between the blast doors of the bay. 

Inside it was loud and relatively warm. Luke dismounted, handing the reins to a junior officer who led the bleating lizard away. He signed in, took off his scarf, goggles, and gloves, and prepared to head back to his quarters, then saw Wedge squatting, working on one of the snowspeeders. He walked over.

"Still having problems, I see," he said.

Wedge squinted at him, cocked an ear, then spun around. "What did I tell you?" he bellowed at the antennaed alien working on the opposite side of the speeder. He ran stiffly around the the other side and plucked the components out of the alien's seven-fingered hands. "No. This one goes here, that one goes there, and the red one connects with the blue one, not the yellow one!"

The alien nodded briefly, antennae twitching, and continued working. "Moron," Wedge mumbled, standing up and stretching. 

Luke clapped him on the back. "Good going. I see you're in a good mood today."

Wedge groaned. "I'm never going to finish. We're going to be here till doomsday, working on these dumb speeders. I can't see why we don't all use tauntaun."

"I can see why," Luke said. He sniffed, wrinkled his nose. "I smell horrible."

"Yup," said Wedge, not bothering to deny the fact. He looked over at the alien, who had rectified his mistake but was now looking puzzled. "I'd better get on."

"See you," said Luke, and turned to walk away.

"Hey, Luke!"

"Yeah?"

Wedge stood there with a mystifying grin on his face. "You want to see something?"

"What?"

"Go to the main hanger bay before you clean up."

Luke stopped. "Why?"

"Just go. It's a surprise."

"A surprise, huh? Like that surprise when you rigged that automatic water dumping bucket in my room so that when I opened the door it dumped all over me and made a big wet melted ice puddle in the middle of my floor?"

Wedge grinned. "Naw. You'll like this one."

"I'm sure," said Luke doubtfully. He exited the hanger, wondering whether to listen to Wedge or not. Every time Wedge got that grin on his face it meant he was up to something. Well, what the heck. He needed some fun anyway. And if it happened to be another water bucket, he'd make sure he'd get Wedge back good this time.

He pushed past people in the narrow ice corridors, nodding to the murmured hellos and smiling at the wrinkled noses. They needed to invent some stuff that stopped tauntauns from smelling. A man could get rich inventing something like that. The Rebel Alliance would pay anything for it. At least, he would.

He turned into the corridor that led to the main hanger bay, walked through the doors, still thinking...and then stopped dead.

There, in the middle of the hanger floor, was the Millenium Falcon.

He just stood and stared. He couldn't believe it. Han was back? He must have gotten back while Luke was out on his tauntaun. He stood there and grinned, then started to run. The landing ramp was open and as he reached it, a figure appeared, jogged down.

"Hey, kid!"

"Han!"

Luke reached him, threw his arms around him. Han hugged him back, hard. "Han! You're back! When?"

"You had just gone out. I asked around when I couldn't find you."

Luke stood back, just looked at him. Han looked the same as ever, unruly brown hair, old white shirt and black vest, dirty pants and dented blaster hanging from a worn blaster belt. Except that Han was grinning like a maniac with that old lopsided grin, and Luke knew he must be, too. From the ramp, Chewbacca growled a greeting, then hoisted Luke into the air, patting him with one furry paw.

"All right, Chewie, all right!" Chewie set him back down. For a moment all three of them simply stood there, grinning at each other with a trace of embarrasment. Luke felt giddy with excitement.

"Man," Han said, "You won't believe-"

Someone screamed behind them at the entrance to the bay and then Han was almost bowled over by a slim figure rushing at him. "Han!" Leia screamed, hugging him.

When she let go of him, Han made a deep mock-bow. "Greetings, your Worship," he said.

Leia tried to look annoyed, but gave it up. "I thought you'd never come back. I thought you'd left us."

"Me?" Han pretended to be hurt. "I'm gravely offended, you Highness-ness."

"Oh, stop it, nerf herder."

"Nerf herder!" Han turned to Luke. "Look. My first day back and she's already picking on me." He sighed. "Times change, people never do."

Chewie barked, patted Leia on the head. She gave him a pat on the arm. "How long will you be back, Han?"

He shrugged. "Depends. I got a little held up there on my last delivery, thought it might be good to hole up here for a little while until whoever found me forgets they did."

Leia looked skeptically at him. "What are the chances of that?"

He grinned. "Next to none. But I'm a gambling man. Gambling for a miracle right now might help."

She smiled at him, a real smile. "It's good to have you back."

For a moment he smiled at her too, and Luke felt an unpleasant sensation creep down his spine, as if they had forgotten he was even there. Then Han turned to him. "Well, kid, looks like you'll have to put up with me living with you for a while."

"I don't mind," Luke said. "But I'd better go take a shower."

"Yeah, you smell. Where's the general?"

Luke shrugged. "Depends on which one you want. Madine's in central control. Rieekan's out by the power generator."

Han grimaced. "Rieekan. But I can wait. Have a little extra free time before he finds out I'm back and gets me to slaving away for him."

"Right." Luke gave him a grin. "I'll see you later."

Han waved, turned to tell Chewie to start unloading. Luke headed back through the doors. Han was back. That was great. He shouldn't have to worry anymore. He was safe, home in one piece. Everything was all right.

But he couldn't help remembering that smile between him and Leia and wondering what it might mean.

"Three thousand credits," said Daral.

"Three thousand one hundred seventeen," said the six clawed alien to his right.

The Quarren opposite him at the dimly lit table smiled nervously, shifted in his seat. "Three thousand one hundred thirty." He pressed the small scrambler button on the bottom left hand corner of one of his metallic sabaac cards and glanced at it hesitantly. His expression became more ghastly. "Ten."

Daral fingered the skifter card in his pocket and watched the faces around the table. The stakes had gotten enormously high since the game started half an hour ago and he wasn't sure he was going to last. He had done all right so far, but that was only because he had played Cloud City Casino sabaac far more often in the past few weeks than he wanted. Kent had suddenly acquired a penchant for sabaac and had gone and spent all his money on books on sabaac rules. He'd sat up at night on the computer, not studying as Kelgyn did, but reviewing ways to play, cheat, and win at sabaac, then had tried to teach Daral. Daral had written himself off as a hopeless case, but he'd managed to learn the Cloud City Casino rules before Kent gave up completely and started teaching Kelgyn instead, who was a much better player. It was surprising, but Daral had never realized how much he had learned by watching Kent and Kelgyn play their all-night matches while he was trying to sleep.

Besides, he would have thought sabaac beneath him. Not a game fit for someone his own status.

"Three thousand one hundred sixty credits," said a Devaronian to Daral's left. She reached over, plucked a card from the six-clawed alien's hand, then grinned, showing sharp, pointed teeth. "Negative eighteen."

Daral took a deep breath, ignoring his shaking hands, and pressed the scrambler button. The card face changed, coalesced into the Queen of Air and Darkness. He sucked in his breath, calculated quickly. He had the Two of Sabres, which meant that he needed only one more point to win exactly. He palmed the skifter card swiftly under his sleeve, changed it to the One of Flasks as he reached over and took a card from the Quarren. He made a quick exchange of cards, sliding the skifter out from his sleeve and into his hand. "Twenty-three," he said, and placed his cards on the table.

The Devaronian froze. "That is not possible!" she hissed. She glared at his cards, hand reaching for her blaster, and for a moment Daral thought he was doomed. Then she threw the cards down on the table, and stalked out.

The Quarren gazed at him mildly, blinking bulbous eyes. "You play well, young human. Would you like your money now or later?"

"Now would be nice," Daral said, trying to sound nonchalant. His palms were dripping sweat.

The Quarren shrugged, shoved a pile of credits across the table at him, tossed his cards into the center of the table. The six-clawed alien did the same, then stalked out after handing Daral a bag full of coins. The Quarren looked at him a while longer, tentacles waving, then walked away. Daral slumped in his seat with relief, threw his cards in the center, palmed the skifter back into his sleeve, and pressed a small button on the table. The cards disappeared into a small center drawer.

The Devaronian hadn't paid him, but that was quite understandable. Devaronians were not known for their good grace at losing anything, even a sabaac game. Daral took a deep breath, let it out, concious of the smoke-filled air in the cantina, then looked around. Behind him a couple of Ithorians hung around a table, bobbing from the waist. He sniffed, grimaced, turned around to see a green, eyeless alien smoking something that smelled like a dead carcass. A Bith band played a slow, jazzy tune in the corner. He looked the other way, saw a Rodian glaring at him. Daral turned quickly back to the table to gather up his credits before someone like the Rodian decided to blow his head off and make off with them. He got up, flipped a couple of coins on the table to pay for his untouched drink, and walked out into the shimmering afternoon air, keeping one hand on his blaster, just in case.

He had arrived in Mos Eisley spaceport just last night and had managed to sell his beat-up freighter to a couple of Jawas who seemed interested in getting off the planet. Or maybe they were thinking of stripping it down. Either way, he doubted there was much on that freighter that could be of actual use, but he had gotten the better end of the deal. Three hundred credits, just for that piece of junk. Those Jawas must have really wanted to get off Tatooine.

Looking around, Daral could see why. There wasn't much on this sand heap in the middle of nowhere. Behind him, the cantina squatted in the sand like an overweight, sunbathing Hutt. The sun's glare reflected off its roof and onto the sand. What pavement there was had been eroded away by the grit, cracked and barely visible through the sand covering it. As far as he could see, white buildings crowded together in haphazard patterns along the streets, the sun lighting some to a fierce white-hot fire and throwing the eaves and doorways into dark shadow. The plaster walls of most of them were cracked and peeling. 

A hot breeze drifted past, carrying with it the scent of something vile and rotting. Daral exhaled quickly, looked the other way. 

In front of him was a wide street, if the sand-strewn ways could be called that. The smell of sweat and musty disuse was everywhere despite the burning sun, and there were not many beings out at this hour in the afternoon. What manner of beings walking the streets did so hurridly, as if eager to get to a cooler place to rest. The streets were mostly quiet, and the afternoon itself was lazy and sleepy, though Daral could not shake the feeling of danger that also permeated the air, as if one wrong move could bring a knife slipped into his ribs.

Several hooded Jawas hurried along the street, squeaking to themselves. A lizard looking alien was carrying out a gutteral conversation with a squat metallic droid. Two landspeeders roared past, chased by several Gamorreans and shattering the afternoon calm for a moment. Thankfully, there were no Imperial stormtroopers about anywhere, though he had seen a squadron upon arrival. A hot wind whipped sand into Daral's eyes. He blinked several times and started slowly forward, trying to make out individual buildings against the glare.

Walking across the street in front of the cantina, he bumped into a fat, frog-looking alien. The alien jumped, screamed at Daral in a high-pitched unintelligible language, then spotted the blaster at Daral's hip and shut up. Daral managed a fierce glare at the alien and stalked off in what he hoped was a good imitation of offended pride. He had had that expression down for years, even at the Academy. But somehow he couldn't seem to remember it now.

Sounds of a heated argument came from nearby, followed by blaster shots, then silence. Daral jerked around, surprised, with a hand to his blaster. A few passers-by looked at him curiously, but no one seemed to be terribly concerned. Mos Eisley. As far as bad spaceports went, Daral had never been in one as bad as this.

He reached the shelter of a smallish building situated next to a large junk pile. Maybe he could find something in the junk pile. He leaned against the flaking plaster side of the tumble-down building, scanning the pile. Except he didn't know what he was looking for. He needed a ship, but one couldn't pull a ship out of a scrap heap. A droid would be nice, but that would be an extra burden to pay for if he didn't really need one. A new blaster. Maybe they sold some around here. 

He knew he should get moving, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to stir. What was he doing here, anyway? Where was he going to go if he did get a ship? His whole life, going down the drain and him powerless to stop it. 

A rough tug on his pants leg startled him. "Hey!" a scratchy voice demanded harshly. "You no steal!"

Daral blinked, looked around, then down. A small blue alien with furry ears stood there, no higher than his knees, holding a blaster trained on him. Daral froze. "I'm just looking," he began.

"No! You steal! Mugga see you, stand there, not go away! Mugga know! You thief. Mugga shoot if move!"

Daral felt sweat trickling down his spine. "Now, look here. You want to search me? I haven't taken anything."

The small alien didn't move. Its nose twitched rapidly. "You no move or Mugga shoot now!"

A shadow fell over the alien and it looked up, startled. Carelessly, a sun-browned human hand reached down and plucked the blaster away. A deep voice spoke. "So you took my blaster, huh?"

The alien hopped up and down in agitation. "Mugga no take! Mugga see in street! No take blast!"

Daral looked up, saw a rough looking man standing there. He glanced from the man to the alien, muscles tensed, unsure of what to do. The man looked about late twenties or thirties-though it was hard to tell; he could have been only a little older than Daral himself-a short beard, and longish blond hair bleached light by the sun. His features were brown and weathered by sun and wind. He was dressed in a dirty, sleeveless white shirt and dark patched pants and moved with the slow, easy grace of experience. The man saw his look, laughed easily.

"It's all right, kid. You can move. This ain't his pile of junk. He's just trying to scare you."

The alien began to screech. The man cuffed it lightly on the side of the head with the blaster and it crumpled on the sand, making whimpering noises. "Oh, get up, you," the man said. "I know your tricks."

"Kev hurt Mugga," whined the creature.

The man stepped over the alien, ignoring it, and extended a hand to Daral. "He's kind of crazy," he said, jerking his head to indicate the alien. "Crazy but harmless. He'd miss with that blaster at point-blank range. Besides, he doesn't know how to use one."

Daral warily took the hand, shook it. "Name's Ters," continued the man. "Kevrin Ters, but most folks call me Kev." He stepped back. "Don't tell me you don't got a name, boy."

Daral swallowed. "Call me Kent," he said. On such a remote planet, the chances of anyone ever having heard of the Krellises were slim, but this man seemed like the type to have traveled around. Better to play it safe.

The man squinted at him through the sun's rays, sizing him up. "So it's like that, huh?" he said. "Sure, whatever, Kent. What, you in some kind of local trouble? Need to stay undercover for a while?"

Daral shrugged. "Kind of."

The man grinned widely. "I'll leave it at that. Guess we all got secrets. What are you hanging around here for? You don't look like the type to mess around in places like this much."

Inexplicably, the tears welled up. He looked down at the ground, blinked. "I've got nowhere else to go," he mumbled.

He sensed Ters looking at him, the easy bravado changing to an expression akin to sympathy. "Seems like you're in a tough spot," he said.

Daral looked away. The sunlight was a haze of bright colors through his tears. "What's it to you?" he mumbled. "You can't help me any."

"Now look here, kid," the man said, sounding faintly hurt. "I ain't going to pry into your own business, but looks like you're in trouble and if I could help you, I would." He was silent for a while, then snapped his fingers. "Hey, wait a minute! What do you say to coming along with me? I'm looking for an extra hand on this run anyway. Could use you. If you want to get off this sandball."

Daral barely heard him, staring down at the sand. What's the use? I've got nowhere else to go. I'm going to be stuck here on this hellhole the rest of my life. No family. No ship. No future. What a bloody mess my life's become. What a bloody mess I've become. 

"I don't need your sympathy," he bit out, looking up. "I can take care of myself."

"I don't doubt it," the man said. But his eyes were still watching Daral. "But like I said, I could always use an extra hand. A little company would be nice, too. I get tired of this guy jabbering on all day." He nudged the blue alien with his foot.

"What are you, some kind of slave trader or something?"

The man's expression darkened. "Now you get something straight, kid. I may be a spice smuggler and I may be dishonest and a cheat, but I ain't ever going to stoop as low as that. Ain't nothin ever going to make me do anything like that. I'd kill myself first. Understand?"

Daral nodded, heart pounding. Whatever else he was, this man was not someone to take lightly. "Spice, huh?" he said instead. A smuggler. On Coruscant those men had always been spoken of with contempt, dirty no-good criminals who should be shot on sight. The only good smuggler is a dead smuggler, the saying ran. Smugglers were devils of men who rejoiced in refuse, too stupid to make a living anyway else. 

Or so Daral had believed. Now he was not quite so sure. A smuggler's life, with its danger, sounded far better than his own ragged existence now.

"Sure," said the man. "Or whatever else I can get my hands on. A man needs money to live on, you know. If you've been here before, chances are you've seen me around, too. Good spaceport for smugglers."

"So I've heard," said Daral. The alien was stirring now. One furry ear twitched. Ters walked over and picked it up.

"Well, I'll best be going," he said. "If you're coming, kid, just tag right along." He walked away and did not look back.

Daral watched his retreating back. Chances are, this man had a ship. He could get off planet, at least. Even if the man was a smuggler, he seemed trustworthy. But then, who knew? He stood, torn in indecision. This might be your last chance to get out of here.

The man stopped just before rounding a corner out of sight. "Kid?" he called.

Daral hesitated a split second longer, then hurried after him.


	14. Thirteen: Crossing Paths

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This is a work of fan fiction and all canon characters, scenes, and concept are the property of LucasArts. Original characters and plot property of Gerald Tarrant.

Please do not repost this fanfiction without permission.  
lordofmerentha@yahoo.com 

* * *

****

Thirteen: Crossing Paths

As Daral rounded the corner, he found himself in a narrow alleyway dark and sheltered from the sun by overhanging eaves. Bits of wires and remains of equipment, as well as old bones, littered the ground next to the walls. He swallowed, looked down the alley to see where Ters had gone.

The blue alien, Mugga, was rummaging in a pile of trash outside an old, scratched metal doorway. The doorway was open, revealing a darkened room inside. Daral jogged over to the door, sweat soaking the back of his shirt, and stopped, glancing inside warily.

"Come on in, kid," a voice called from inside. "You won't get any cooler by standing in the sun."

Hesitantly, Daral put one foot inside the raised doorway, then stepped inside. The room was dark, cool, musty smelling like all the other buildings. He blinked, let his eyes adjust to the absence of the glaring sunlight. Slowly the blackness resolved into the rough walls and floor of a small but neat cubicle. The room itself was no more than eight or ten paces across and was roughly square in shape. The walls, as with all walls in Mos Eisley, were made of split and peeling plaster, and the floor was dusty. A bed stood in the far corner, though at second glance it appeared to be made of two mattresses piled one on top of the other. There was a small food synthsizer area built into the opposite wall and a doorway to a refresher and shower cubicle stood next to it. A stuffed chair with most of the stuffing ripped away and a dented gambling table with the circuits ripped out sat by the food synthesizer unit. There was no other furniture in the room. The other half, from the nearer wall to the doorway where Daral stood, was littered with what looked like wires, screws, data chips, bits of metal, and electronic circuits. Two metal boxes, both locked with a blinking fingerprint recognition lock, stood on the far side.

The man, Ters, squatted by the pile, picking up parts and then throwing them back. He looked up as Daral entered, then stood. When he spoke, his voice sounded slightly embarrassed but defensive. "It ain't much, but I make do."

Daral shrugged, tried to keep his disgust out of his voice. He had never seen a more rundown place in which to live. An image of the family estate on Coruscant sprang into his mind. He roughly pushed it aside. "It's more than what I've got right now."

He had no way of knowing if Ters had heard his disgust, but if he had, he said nothing and his face did not change. Instead, he waved a hand at the synthesizer. "Make yourself something to eat."

The blue alien bounded into the room, gave Daral a squinting look, and jumped up on the ragged blanket on top of the matresses, watching Ters with great interest. Ters looked at Daral, then at the alien, and something like a smile spread across his face. "I'd introduce you to Mugs here, but I fear you two have met under more unpleasant circumstances. Mugs is my co-pilot and fellow smuggler. Together we traverse the boundless galaxy, making honest deals and gracious offers. Right, Mugs?"

The blue alien squealed and dived under the bedcovers. Daral suppressed a grin, the first time he'd wanted to smile since he'd left the Academy. Copilot? That blue alien? It looked like he had a lot to learn about the smuggling world. 

He sat down at the metal gaming table, hesitated, then punched a combination into the synthesizer that he hoped would be edible. A moment passed, then with a whir the food slid out of a small opening, depositing itself neatly onto the table. Daral took a deep breath, tasted it. It was actually quite all right. His stomach growled. He had not realized how hungry he was.

As he ate, he watched Ters out of the corner of his eye. The man had taken several wires and circuits and was welding them together with a small hand laser. Noticing Daral's look, Ters put aside the laser and walked over to the table, punched in an order for himself.

"We're staying here tonight," he said, offhandedly as his food slid out. "Then we're leaving at the crack of dawn tomorrow. Not much traffic then. We should be able to slip out unnoticed."

"Unnoticed?" said Daral. Ters stopped eating, turned his gaze on him. The man's eyes were uncomfortably searching. He pushed on. Whatever he could learn about this man, the better. "I thought everyone in Mos Eisley was a smuggler. Or criminal. Or whatever."

Ters shrugged, resumed eating. "So they are. Of one sort or another. And the officials don't really care, even the stormtroopers, just as long as everyone pays a duty fee for docking. But...let's just say I've acquire a reputation around here."

Daral grimaced before he could stop himself. Great. Of all the smugglers in Mos Eisley, he had taken up with one of the worst. It would serve him right if they got shot down trying to leave Mos Eisley.

"You can always leave, kid," Ters said. The smuggler was looking at him again with that searching look. "If you stay I promise you that you won't be murdered in your sleep or anything like that. I told you I don't deal in that business. But it's your choice."

Daral did not look at him. Instead, he got up, leaving his half-eaten food, and went to the doorway, staring out into the alley. Ters was right. He did have a choice. He could still back out. He shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to think through the thick fog that had seemed to obscure his thoughts ever since he left Carida. What had made him follow this bum anyway? Pure impulse. He must be mad. He should back out, leave, go anywhere, anywhere but here. He had his own path, his own life, and no commitment to anyone. He had a choice.

His mouth twisted in a bitter grimace. What choice? If he had a choice between staying here tonight or roaming the streets of Mos Eisley in the dark, he would stick with staying here.Between death and perhaps life. Maybe tomorrow he could actually make it off this planet to somewhere. It would not too bad, after all. They would be two renegades, two fugitives fleeing from the galaxy that had rejected them. At least he would have found someone like him.

"Kid," said Ters's voice behind him, dark and serious. "Taking up with me... that makes you a smuggler. You sure you don't want to back out? You still can. You know what you're gettin' into if you come with me. You're gonna have to run for the rest of your life. Run from everything you've always thought of as safe. You realize that?"

"Yes," said Daral softly. _Yes_, _I know_._ Running_..._is not an issue any longer_.

He let the waves of despair rush over him, looked up into the sliver of blue sky above the overarching eaves, listening to the hot afternoon stillness, and silently damned the Empire and all its minions to a bloody end. Revenge would be his. Whatever the means, it would be his, somehow, someway. For all the Empire had done to his life.

"Lord Vader," said Harkov, bowing slightly from the waist.

The ghostly, three-dimensional image of Darth Vader shimmered on the holonet projector surface, as domineering and darkly fear inspiring as in real-life. "Admiral," he said. The mechanical breathing did not alter. Steady, measured. "How goes the war?"

"Well enough, Lord Vader," Harkov said, swallowing. Rumor had it that Vader could kill from afar, strangle a man with an invisible hand without being present in the flesh. He didn't know how great Vader's killing range was, but the more distance between him and the dark lord, the better. "We have engaged the enemy twice. The first time, as we entered the system, the second, only two days ago."

"Excellent." Vader's dark voice grew even darker with satisfaction. "What else, Admiral?"

"My lord, we captured a Ripoblus freighter in the first battle between us, the Ripoblus, the Dimok, and smugglers." Vader showed no sign of emotion at the news of the four-way conflict. "The freighter...contained illegal contraband."

"Illegal, Admiral?"

"Illegal for the Ripoblus to possess, my lord."

Vader nodded slightly, fists rising to his hips. "Yes. And what do you intend to do about this...illegal contraband?"

"My lord," Harkov said, and stopped. What could he say? That he was going to raid Ripoblus storehouses like Admiral Mikov had done? That would be enough to earn him instant stranglement, or at least removal from command. That he was going to let them alone? It was a no-win situation. He waited.

After a moment, Vader said, "I see you are fully aware of the situation you have encountered, Admiral."

Harkov nodded stiffly, trying not to nod too stiffly. "Yes, my lord."

There was the faintest hint of dark amusement in Vader's voice as he said, "You are in command. Admiral Mikov was a fool. You, I trust, can hold your own over your situation. Do whatever you feel necessary."

So Vader wasn't about to admit that he had been wrong. Harkov swallowed again. "Thank you, my lord."

"So," Vader said. "Ripoblus, Dimok, and smugglers. You have not mentioned the last two groups."

"The Dimok manufacture their own weapons. We captured a weapons lab in the last battle. As for the smugglers...who knows? They could be the ones supplying the Ripoblus with their weapons, but I doubt it. They seem to be at odds with both the other two groups."

"A three-way war." Vader's voice was flat.

"No, my lord." Harkov lifted his head slightly. "A four-way war, now."

"I see." Again, that faint tinge of amusement. "Do you require more assistance?"

Harkov felt a flash of blind fear, then quickly covered it. No. Vader could not know. He could not. "No, I think not. My forces are sufficient for the task. All three groups use old model ships-Y-wings, Mark II Headhunters, Corellian Corvettes. Though there was a modified frigate in the last battle that looked relatively new. And a few Rebel cruisers."

He saw Vader stiffen at the mention of Rebel cruisers. "And you suspect, Admiral...?" His voice was quiet, deadly.

Harkov shook his head. "No. This place is too remote for them. With their limited resources...it could not be."

"Be vigilant nonetheless. It could be a trap."

"I am well aware of that, Lord Vader."

"Yes." The amusement was stronger now, with a faint hint of danger. Warning Harkov not to exhibit too much confidence in the face of the Dark Lord. _No need to worry, Lord Vader_. _I guard my words well_. Harkov stared at Vader, looking at that fearful shimmering form, trying not to show the chill running up and down his spine. The breathing seemed to become thoughtful, then resumed its normal pace.

"That is all, Admiral."

Harkov bowed from the waist. "Yes, my lord."

"Contact me next whenever you feel necessary. I trust your judgment in this war will bring the warring factions to a peace under the Empire."

"Yes, my lord," Harkov said again.

Vader did not move, but the connection shimmered and blinked out. Not until Harkov exhaled did he realize he had been holding his breath. His heart pounded and he felt light-headed. A conversation with Vader would do that to anyone.

He exited the holochamber and stepped into the bridge foyer across from the communications consoles. The bridge was a soft mumur of voices and clicking of bootheels on the polished decks. He turned and started down the command walkway, then stopped as he saw Captain Zeldiri coming towards him.

As the captain drew closer Harkov could make out the ever-present sneer on his face, the twist of Zeldiri's lip that he knew all too well. Zeldiri came to stand before him on the walkway, then saluted, it seemed, a little reluctantly. Harkov returned the salute.

"What were Lord Vader's orders?" Zeldiri said. But behind the words Harkov felt Zeldiri's unspoken words, same as those that had hung in the air between Mon Mothma and Madine at that first meeting so long ago. Though Zeldiri's were as clear as daylight. _What mistakes did Vader punish you for?_ The insinuating tone rubbed Harkov's nerves raw, but he kept his composure, kept his hands behind his back so Zeldiri could not see his fists clench.

"Our situation, Captain," he said slowly, "is difficult at best."

"Yes, Admiral." Zeldiri's tone was faintly accusatory.

"I mentioned the weapons incidents to Lord Vader. Both of them."

Harkov stopped speaking, and began walking along the walkway to the viewports to the front of the bridge. Zeldiri hurried to keep up, trailing along after him like a lost child searching for its mother. Harkov reached the center viewport, looking out into space and the cold stars, pinpoint after shining pinpoint. A man could drown in the light of those stars. So many, yet so few.

He sensed Zeldiri chafing at his shoulder. The man had no patience. He was like a parasite, feeding information off of others, taking the credit for himself. He waited, would wait, would let Zeldiri be the one to start the conversation.

Finally the captain could stand it no longer. The words tumbled forth sharply. "That cannot be all, Admiral. Not all. You are hiding some-"

He trailed off as Harkov turned towards him, mouth snapping shut and throat working to swallow. Harkov pushed down the faint sense of satisfaction that gave him. This was war, and in war, there could be no bickering between allies, or all would come apart.

"Set course for Ripoblus, Captain," he said softly, but clearly, "and prepare for ground assault."

Vader stepped from the doorway of the Kuat Drive Yards holochamber and glanced around. The lobby beyond was deserted. The gleam of wall lights set in the walls reflected onto the polished stone floor, and above, a large transparent dome soared up into dark space. The whirr of a cleaning droid penetrated the soft stillness.

He let the door swoosh shut behind him and strode through the silent lobby, not waiting for the three stormtroopers he knew were behind him. His polished black boots echoed against the floor as he crossed the lobby and entered a smallish corridor off to the left. There was a door at the end of it. Vader stopped, waiting, and a mechanical voice demanded an entry code.

Inside the mask, Vader's face hardened. He had no time for the petty insignificancies of this shipyard. Gathering the dark side to him, he searched inward for the locking mechanism...found it. With all the strength in the Force he could muster, he twisted it, splintering it. There was a sharp electronic squeal and the door slid open. Vader stepped through and the stormtroopers followed with the click of armored boots.

The corridor inside was narrow. Harsh light glared off metal walls and the echoing of boots was loud against the metal floor. Like a Star Destroyer, Vader thought grimly. He moved along the corridor at a steady pace, sensing the stormtroopers following obediently behind.

The corridor widened gradually and the silence was broken by sharp whines of landing craft and muffled thuds. The hall ended abruptly in a set of double doors. Vader paused, preparing to open these with the Force as well, but before he could, they slid open and a tech barged out.

"Hey! Look where you're..." The words trailed off as the man looked up, saw Vader glaring down at him. He took a few stumbling steps backwards. "Lord Vader! I had no-I didn't-"

Vader wasted no words on reprimand. His presence was enough. He was silent a moment, letting the tech worry first. "Is my ship complete?"

"Ah..." the tech was sweating, sweat trickling down his forehead and soaking onto his collar. He was edging back from Vader towards the doors. "I don't know, my lord. I'm not in charge of such things...ah, I'd have to check..."

"Do so!" Vader's voice was a rumble, filled with dark menace. He hated the inneficiency of bureaucracy, always someone higher up in charge.

"Yes! Yes, my lord!" The tech turned and fled through the doors. Holding them open with the Force, Vader followed him, gesturing to the stormtroopers who obediently stepped through.

The large bay was well-lit, hot, and noisy. Computer terminals glowed against the walls and catwalks crisscrossed the air above the ground. Small tugs carrying bulky metal struts hovered just above the floor while red-faced men with flares in their hands shouted and directed them elsewhere. Cargo ships and transports lifted clumsily in and out of the bay. Piles of equipment lay on the sidelines, ready for pickup and delivery. It had the looks of an efficient shipyards, to be sure, but if Kuat Drive Yards was so efficient, why had they not finished Vader's ship? He had signed thirteen months on the contract; he had given them two years. Inefficiency was astonishing. Perhaps a demonstration was in order.

Vader dismissed the thought with an imperceptible shake of the head. Too many dealings with the Rebels had corrupted his thinking. No, Kuat Drive Yards was a respectable installation with excellent quality work and fair management. Let them alone. After all, they were only a company, and an Imperial-run bureaucratic company at that.

The tech came hurrying back, followed by the colonel Vader had spoken to upon arrival. "Lord Vader!" the colonel called.

Vader waited.

The colonel stopped in front of him, panting slightly. "Yes, Lord Vader, your ship is ready. Would you like the tour now?"

Tour? Vader half-smiled, quickly subsided at the searing pain. Inspection, more likely. A look to see if these half-witted shipyard personnel had done everything he had asked for.

"Very well," he said.

The colonel nodded, swallowed. "Yes. Well. Ah...follow me, my lord."

Vader gestured to the stormtroopers to follow him out of the the second set of double doors out of the bay. The colonel did not speak as they walked down a hallway, turned, walked down another hallway, turned, took the turbolift up to the next deck. The man's face was slightly green under the light, and Vader wondered idly if his presence would make the officer pass out. Such things were not unlikely, but they were rare and happened only to the extremely faint-hearted. Vader was not sure if the colonel qualified under the latter category.

The turbolift stopped, the doors slid open, and they exited onto a larger corridor, with techs and droids hurrying past them. The techs bowed slightly as they passed. Vader looked straight ahead, not bothering to return the salutation. A band of Wookie slaves were led past, kept in line by five stormtroopers with blaster rifles, though the creatures looked so beaten and bruised that Vader was sure they would continue down to work without any guard.

They stopped at a set of wide double doors and the colonel whipped out a card and ran it through the ID scanner. The doors opened onto a bay much like the one they had just left. Vader felt impatience running through him. "Colonel," he said softly, warningly.

"Yes, Lord Vader," the colonel gasped. Vader frowned. Perhaps he was about to pass out after all. "That shuttle, Lord Vader."

Vader looked in the direction of the pointed finger, saw a standard Lambda-class Imperial shuttle waiting, with engines running. Without a word to the colonel, he made a motion for the stormtroopers to remain in the bay, then strode towards the shuttle, black cloak billowing. He could sense the colonel's fear as the man followed closely on his heels.

As soon as the colonel had stepped onto the ramp behind him, mechanisms whined and began retracting the ramp. Vader waited inside the shuttle for it to close, then moved to one of the passenger seats. The colonel sat across from him, twisting his fingers together, talking perhaps a little too quickly as the shuttle lifted and flew out of the bay.

"The ship is marvelous, Lord Vader. Quite marvelous. I have never seen better construction on any craft before this one. Quite wonderful. Yes. Perhaps...ah, that is, how many more of these would you like manufactured?"

He waited expectantly for Vader's answer. Vader considered pretending he had not heard the question, but decided to answer anyway. He turned towards the colonel. "That remains to be seen colonel, after I inspect your workmanship. Inferior work is not to be tolerated in the Empire."

"Ah, I quite understand Lord Vader," said the colonel hurridly. "Of course. But I expect the ship to be much to your liking."

Vader made no reply but instead sat in silence, staring at the shuttle viewscreen overhead. The shuttle was heading away from the main KDY station. Ahead he could see nothing but stars. He could hear the chatter of subspace navigation channels from the cockpit.

As he watched, a dark blot began to spread across the stars, a space in which there simply was nothing, nothing but blackness with stars blinking fitfully around it. The blot grew larger, formed into the shape of a Star Destroyer...except larger. And it kept growing. Growing, blocking out the light, and still getting larger. As the shuttle flew closer, Vader could make out the shape. Like a Star Destroyer, but yet unlike, a giant spearhead floating in space.

"Impressive," he commented to the colonel.

"Thank you, Lord Vader," the man said quickly, as if he were afraid Vader would take back the words.

The ship was huge now, filling the entire viewscreen. Individual lights shone bright on its surface and tugs still buzzed around it, microscopic insects on the surface of a bantha. Except this ship was no bantha. Its lines were clean, crisp, magnificent, suggesting strength and menace all at once. Despite himself, Vader felt pleased. It was quite a feat he had asked KDY to take on, and they had handled it superbly. Of course...there was still the interior to consider. But the overall impression was impressive.

There was the slight pull and tug of the tractor beam as it took hold of the shuttle. The whine of the engines ceased and a slight bump indicated the landing of the shuttle. The viewscreen went dark and the intercom clicked. "Lord Vader, we have arrived," said a voice.

The ramp lowered and Vader stepped out into the docking bay. It was huge, stretching on forever in the glow of thousands of lights, with TIE racks lining every wall. It was deserted. The shuttle looked strangely dwarfed in the center of the great cavern. The colonel came hurrying up. "How large is this bay?" Vader said.

The man chewed his lip, thought. "Ah, if I'm not mistaken, my lord, it should be large enough to almost hold a ship the size of a standard Imperial-class Destroyer." His gaze turned anxious. "Is it large enough, my lord?"

Vader almost smiled despite himself. He had not known they would take his suggestions as orders. Though it was wise of them. He turned to the colonel. "Lead on."

The colonel hurried to the turbolift on one side of the bay. It was quite a ways, Vader's boots clicking on the black metal floor. The noise echoed around the room, magnified a thousand times, bouncing from wall to wall. The colonel had the lift open, waiting. "Where should you like to go first, Lord Vader?" he said.

Vader stepped inside without answering, then said, "Bridge."

The lift doors closed smoothly and the lift itself moved without a sound. Vader again felt pleased, but the workmanship yet remained to be seen. The bridge was where he had chosen to start, the most likely place where flaws in design would most likely be spotted. 

A small ping announced arrival, and the door slid open. Vader stepped out into the strangely quiet surroundings. He was in the security foyer, with comm consoles on one side and a holoprojector in the middle, as in standard Imperial-class Star Destroyers, except that the foyer measurements had been enlarged at least twice, perhaps more. He turned to the main bridge, stepped down on the command walkway, past the weapons stations, boots clicking hollowly against the metal walk. As with everything else, the walkway was twice as long, the number of consoles in the crew pits twice as many. 

He reached the viewports and looked out. The view was...impressive. The whole ship lay before him, stretched out into the blackness seemingly into infinity. The KDY construction yard lay out there, a blinking light in the distance. The ship was huge. Vader hooked his thumbs into his control belt, feeling the colonel coming closer.

"Lord Vader?" the man's voice was a bit breathless. "Is the bridge to your liking?"

Vader turned towards the man, considering. "A fine piece of work, colonel."

"Why...thank you, my lord!" The colonel's voice was pleased.

"I wish construction to begin on four more of these Super Star Destroyers immediately."

"Yes, my lord."

Vader turned back the viewport, ignoring the man beside him. His ship...complete. Finally. And now he could complete his search for the enigmatic stranger who had avoided his detection these long months.

Luke Skywalker.


	15. Fourteen: Changing Fortune

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This is a work of fan fiction and all canon characters, scenes, and concept are the property of LucasArts. Original characters and plot property of Gerald Tarrant.

Please do not repost this fanfiction without permission.  
lordofmerentha@yahoo.com 

* * *

****

Fourteen: Changing Fortune 

"Sit down, cadet."

Nervously, Kelgyn perched on the edge of the hard metal chair. He wiped the sweat from his palms and twisted his fingers together to keep them from shaking. From across the table, Colonel Westren watched him.

The commander of the Imperial Academy on Carida was a stony-faced man, though still relatively young-looking. His olive-gray uniform was immaculate, clean and pressed crisply. The colonel's hands were folded across the stone tabletop, and on one finger gleamed the signet ring of the Empire. Beside the colonel's chair stood Lieutenant Escrath, looking faintly pleased with himself. Kelgyn could only wonder what the ghoul-faced man had to be pleased about. He waited, feeling sweat running down his temples and under his collar, and not only from trudging from the physics building to the command center in the hot sun.

Finally Westren stirred, rousing himself as if from deep thought. He looked at Kelgyn, those piercing green eyes drilling into him. Kelgyn flinched, but sat straight and forced himself to stare back at the colonel. Westren nodded, and then sat back, looking satisfied.

"Ah. Cadet Dyrrod?"

"Yes, sir."

"I assume you know why you have been called out of your classes this morning?"

Kelgyn swallowed. "Yes, sir." His voice shook slightly.

"Well. A most unfortunate incident, that was. Most unfortunate."

Kelgyn said nothing. _Now they're going to tell me I'm expelled_. But Westren nodded to himself.

"However, since you were acting in a situation of self-defense, the Imperial Military education council has decided to overlook your actions."

Westren stopped, apparently waiting for Kelgyn to say something. Kelgyn couldn't speak. His throat clutched up and his hands gripped the arms of the chair. This was it, then. "Thank you, sir," he managed dully.

"Oh, don't thank me, Cadet," Westren admonished, but a note of self-satisfaction crept into his voice. "Thank Lieutenant Escrath here. You are going to be transferred off Carida to be trained as a stormtrooper."

Escrath looked even more pleased at himself. Kelgyn simply sat there. He felt numb. He heard Westren's words as if from a far distance, hollow words reverberating through the nothingness of his mind.

"You are most fortunate, Cadet, since stormtroopers are the most elite of all Imperial troops. Since they are not part of the Imperial army, it is necessary that you leave Carida to begin your training. You are one of the few, Cadet, in that you are starting your training young, thereby signaling your extraordinary potential."

"Yes, sir." Kelgyn said again. He felt nothing, only the hollowness inside his mind reverberating against his skull. He felt his jaw hurting, realized that his teeth were clenched tightly. He could not think, could not move. Not stormtrooper training. Better that he had been expelled. Better that he had been expelled than to go through this. Than to be reminded of his actions day after day, week after week, for his whole life as a stormtrooper. 

"Be thankful, Cadet," said Westren, a bit sternly. Kelgyn nodded slightly at Escrath. His head felt stiff, ungainly, as if he were moving it for the first time in hours.

"When will I be leaving, sir?" The words came out in a croak.

Westren glanced at Escrath, who said: "Seven hundred hours tomorrow, Cadet. Start packing."

"Don't bother to return to classes either, Dyrrod," Westren said. "I will notify the instructors of your change in agenda."

"Thank you, sir," Kelgyn said again, hollowly. The numbness still gripped him. He could not think. He felt blind, deaf, wanted to crawl into himself and hide what he had done from the world. But instead he rose smoothly from his chair, muscles seeming to function on their own, and walked to the door. It slid open into the larger waiting area for the command center.

"Be thankful, Cadet," Westren called after him. "This is the chance of a lifetime."

Captain Disroit folded his arms together, paced along the catwalk above the bridge of the _Akaga_. Out of the forward viewport, the _Protector_ and the _Harpax _hung in space on a backdrop of glittering stars, and behind the _Akaga_ were the Corvettes and the _Commander_. Repair drones buzzed around all the ships, repairing damaged done by the Ripoblus and Dimok in the last battle.

He watched as one of the drones came close to the forward viewport, hovered close. One long spindly arm reached out from its main body, spouting gouts of sizzling blue flame as it lased together microscopic cracks in the transparisteel.

Clattering bootheels coming up the ramp made him turn. A deck officer. The officer saluted. "Incoming transmission, sir. From Captain Jellard."

Disroit moved off the catwalk after the officer, walked to the communications consoles. The comm lieutenant monitoring the first station nodded as Disroit came up, opened the channel with a flick of one wrist.

"Disroit here."

The words that came back were a little fuzzy._ "This is Jellard of _Commander_. Do you read?"_

"I read you, Captain."

Jellard's voice sounded apologetic even through the static. _"Sorry, Captain. Our short-range communications array was damaged during the battle. It will be a while before it is repaired."_

"No problem, Captain." Disroit half-smiled to himself. "Go on."

_"Admiral Harkov reports course change."_

That was something unexpected. They had been drifting in space around Troklay, one of the primary Dimok-populated planets, for what seemed forever now. From what Disroit had heard, Zeldiri had been arguing for ground assault every chance he got, and Harkov had been more or less patiently refusing him. Only one scout party had been sent out in orbit around the planet, and it had reported destruction of populated areas on a massive scale. Whole cities laid to waste, burning and smoking. No wonder the cloud cover over the planet was gray. Disroit had never seen any war so violently bloody as this one was turning out to be.

_"Are you there, Disroit?"_

Disroit started, realizing that he had been leaning over the comm in silence for a while. "I'm here. I suppose I'm just tired. Dozed off."

A crackle of laughter over the static_. "It happens to the best of us. The Admiral says-"_ There was a pause and the sound of faint voices. Disroit could not make out the words over the white noise. Probably some annoying deck officer. 

_"Sorry, Captain. Deck officer."_ Disroit smiled. Jerrel continued._ "The Admiral orders all ships to set course for Ripoblus. Prepare all troops for ground assault."_

_Ground assault!_

The words startled Disroit more than he cared to admit. Was Harkov giving in to Zeldiri? Caving in to the constant demands? Or did he just want to see more blood? 

_Do you mean to betray yourself, Admiral?_

_"Rather ironic that we are headed there now,"_ Jerrel sounded almost cheerful across the comm_. "I heard that Harkov had been against ground assault from the beginning. That's what I thought, at least."_

Disroit felt cold. His mouth was dry. "Yes, that's what I thought, too."

_"Well, I have no right to keep you waiting,"_ Jerrel said. _"All ground forces, stormtroopers included, and AT-AT/ST's will be used. Calculate jump to Ripoblus and enter hyperspace on the Admiral's mark. Jerrel out."_

"Disroit out," Disroit said, and motioned to the lieutenant to shut off the comm.

He walked to the viewport and looked out. The repair drone was gone now, hurried over somewhere else for other repairs. Up ahead he could see the Protector, hovering like a giant dagger, blocking the starlight. Troklay hung below, a gray shrouded sphere in the distance.

What was Harkov up to? What did he want? Disroit mulled over the thought in his mind, letting his eyes drift out into the stars. He would not-could not-believe that Harkov wanted blood on his hands. He was not that kind of man. Disroit had known him too long to think he would be. But now...had he changed his mind?

_I cannot believe that_._ Not from him. Not from a man who has so much to fight for._

Who has so much to lose.

The thought chilled Disroit further and he stepped away from the windows over to navigation to order a course change to Ripoblus. The ensign in charge over at navigation lifted an eyebrow at Disroit, but with a shrug set about doing as asked. Disroit left him, went over to security. The security controllers sat slouched over in their seats, wearily monitoring scan areas via images transmitted to computer from security cameras around the ship.

"Where is Trooper Commander 7624?" he demanded.

The security officer seated closest to him in the line of consoles shot up in her seat, surprise etched on her face at the harshness of his voice. A woman. Curious. "Is there a problem, captain?"

"No, lieutenant. Just do as ordered."

"Yes, sir." Fingers clicking on the keyboard, she bent her head over to the task. Disroit noticed the golden-brown hair, shaved close to her scalp as required for women in the Imperial Navy.

"Ah...here we are, sir." She looked up. "He's in trooper bay number 2. Shall I call him down to the bridge, sir?"

Disroit chewed his lip for a moment. "No, lieutenant. I will meet him myself. Trooper bay number 2?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you, lieutenant."

He turned, walked off in the direction of the turbolift. Yes, he would do as Harkov asked. He would prepare for ground assault. He would follow orders.

And hope to all the gods above and below that the Admiral knew what he was doing.

"Right face!" bellowed Damon Torvis. "Attention, mark!" The line of stormtroopers obediently turned as ordered, snapping back to attention as their bootheels hit the deck in what sounded like a giant armored fist clanking against the steel floor.

"Too slow!" he said for what seemed the millionth time. His voice sounded tinny in his own ears. He could only imagine what it sounded like coming from the helmet speaker. "Too slow. Quicker. Faster. And hold your rifle up, Trooper 7221!"

Trooper 7221 accordingly shifted his rifle up in his arms, though what the man inside the armor was thinking, Torvis could not say. He himself was sweating inside his white armor, the sweat dripping from his forehead into his eyes, obscuring his vision. He blinked. The air inside his helmet was stuffy and suffocating.

Torvis hated drills, had always hated drills. Drills were a stormtrooper's life; that was the ironic thing. The life of a trooper was always hard, but he simply could not stand the drills. Drills were hot, sweaty, especially those conducted with troopers standing in the sun for hours at a time in full armor. The commanders had always seemed to think those essential. But then, they had not been the ones wearing the armor.

The armor was a blasted pain, too, to think about it. This was one of the times when Torvis envied the regular army, those in their crisp olive-gray uniforms with no white armor clanking as they walked, no clumsy helmet obscuring their vision. The armor was for protection, yet every trooper knew, everyone but High Command seemed to know, that the armor would not stop a direct blaster shot. 

He half smiled to himself inside the helmet. He should stop complaining. He was a stormtrooper, had chosen voluntarily to lead this life and enjoyed it rather well. He had not seen much action, that was true. Only two years in the field with no major action, but those two years had earned him promotion to trooper commander. Transfer to the _Akaga_ had sent him into orbit around Endor. No action. Not even at the last battle at the Dimok station. Troopers from the _Protector_ and _Commander_ had been sent in, but not those from the _Akaga_. Perhaps he should have been a pilot instead.

He frowned, mentally kicked himself for getting off track, and turned back to the drill. "Detail, atten-hut! Detail, about face!" The line of troopers turned, white armor gleaming in the glaring bay lights. "One, two, forward mark!"

The troopers stepped off in perfect formation, every one in step, marching with equal stride down the end of the bay. It was a sight to see. Not beautiful, but deadly. Very, very deadly, those faces obscured by the blank black and white helmets all alike under the armor, all intimidating.

"Mark, halt, one two!"

The troopers halted, still in line. Torvis nodded in hard approval, walked down to where they stood, rifles up, facing the blank wall of the bay.

"That was better-"

He did not quite finish his sentence as the bay doors slid open and Captain Disroit stepped in.

"Captain!" Torvis saluted abruptly.

Disroit waved aside the salute, beckoned Torvis over without a word. "At ease!" Torvis called to the waiting troopers. They immediately relaxed, feet shuffling, shoulders turning as best as they could within the armor to relieve the ache of standing painfully straight for hours on end. Torvis sympathized. He had been there.

"Short break. We will resume...oh, in a while."

Collective grunting from all the troopers as they struggled to remove their helmets revealing tousled hair, dripping foreheads, and fatigue on faces. They stood uncertainly for a while, glancing at Torvis, the captain. Torvis removed his own helmet, saw them still standing there. "Go on! Move! Or does the word 'break' mean nothing to you?"

They straggled off then, to the water fountain by the door. Torvis hurried over to Disroit, wiping sweat off his face, apologetic. "Sorry, sir. I-"

Disroit shook his head, waved his hand. Don't bother, said the gestures. Torvis noticed that the captain looked weary and anxious. About what?

"You are Trooper Commander 7624?"

Torvis's mouth tightened at the words. He hated the numbers. They made him feel nameless, faceless, reduced to less than an insect crawling on the ground. They made him feel like a prisoner. "Yes sir, I am."

Disroit nodded, more to himself than a sign of an acknowledgement. "And what is your real name, trooper?"

Torvis started. Of all the questions he had expected the captain to ask, he had thrown Torvis off balance. It was cruel, this system of numbers. He had known troopers who had essentially forgotten their names, answering only to their number, performing duties mechanically ingrained into them. Thank the Creator of the galaxy that none of his men had degenerated to that effect. Thank the Creator that he still remembered his name.

"Your name, trooper?" Disroit repeated patiently.

"Torvis, sir. Damon Torvis."

"Well, Commander Torvis, I am to inform you that we have set course for Ripoblus."

"Sir." The name itself meant nothing to Torvis. A planet of the two groups they had been fighting. He had never seen a Ripoblus, fought a Ripoblus, had any kind of contact with the Ripoblus or the Dimok. That was the job of the fighter pilots. Torvis felt a faint flash of envy. The TIE pilots, up there seeing real action, while all he was doing was drill, drill, drill some more.

"I am also to inform you," Disroit continued, "to prepare your men for ground assault."

Torvis froze. That was news to him. He glanced at the captain and saw the other watching him, face devoid of any expression. He swallowed. "Yes, sir."

"More information will be forthcoming. I have no more idea than you at this moment of the battle plan."

"Yes, sir," said Torvis again. He blinked, the world seemed to come into sharp focus. Ground assault. No more drill? Real action? He felt his heart beating faster. "Will the regular army be accompanying us, sir?"

"Yes. Regular army as well as all stormtroopers. We will be using trooper transports, as in the last battle."

"We were not in the last battle, sir." Torvis knew his voice sounded stiff, accusing, but he could not help it.

"Were you not, now?" Disroit almost smiled, but there was something hard in his expression that escaped the smile. "Be glad, Commander Torvis. Be glad."

"Sir?" What was the Captain talking about?

"Never mind, Commander. But troopers will be sent out in stormtrooper transports. Planetary drop ships will carry the regular troops and the AT-AT's."

"Ah. I see, sir."

"No, you don't see." Disroit's voice was as hard as his face for a second. Then he relaxed. "But never mind. Yes, we are using AT-AT's. And AT-ST's as well."

"Yes, sir."

"That is all, Commander."

"Thank you, sir." Torvis saluted.

Disroit raised an eyebrow. "Oh, don't thank me, Commander. Whoever else you thank, don't thank me."

Torvis watched his retreating back as the doors shut behind him. He shook his head slightly. What had Disroit meant? He leaned on his blaster rifle, then abruptly straightened. It was time to drill. And this time, the drill would mean something.

He raised his head slightly. "All right, men. Break's over! In formation! We're doing it for real this time."


End file.
